


The Crown and the Lance

by fine_feathered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fine_feathered/pseuds/fine_feathered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War has passed and peace is upon the Kingdom of Salvation. Jousts are now common affairs, which Sir Dean of Winchester competes in to earn prizes for his ailing county. Yet when Dean is bested by an unknown competitor and saves Prince Castiel from a failed assassination attempt his life is torn apart as he is forced to confront old nightmares and memories. A medieval AU rife with assassins, treachery and emotionally crippled princes and knights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crown and the Lance

_The first time they met was a sunny Thursday afternoon._

_The memory is old and faded when Castiel recalls it, a sheaf of parchment that had been left in sunlight for too long. He remembers it with a sweet heartache.  In fact he will never forget it._

_For Dean the memory is a sour one, a page of his past that he has tried to bury._

_Back then Castiel was too young to understand what he was feeling, but these days he can now relive the memory over and over during dull days at court, can give it new and intricate layers each time he remembers it._

_Even 27 years removed it starts out just the same: with the face of a boy a few years younger than himself, his face dashed with light golden freckles and kissed by the bright spring sunlight._

_The mundane details of arriving at Winchester Castle are often skipped by Castiel, or forgotten entirely. Faintly he remembers the twinge in his back as he rode his horse alongside his father’s with a dozen guards flanking either side of them; their pikes raised. The golden crown sitting atop his father’s head ~~,~~ garnered a fear-fueled respect from the peasantry that passed them on the long dusty road as they stopped and bowed under his watchful gaze._

_The castle ahead is a rather modest structure. It is a building made for function, not for comfort, that much is obvious even from Castiel’s distance. The granite stones are thick but roughly hewn. The windows are glassless and long and thin, perfect for an archer in the event of a siege._

_A high surrounding wall encircles the whole estate and the square castle looks more fortress than home. A shiver runs down Castiel’s spine as he looks up at the turrets and walkways, spying guards walking their length._

_A small group of servants rode out to meet them, holding trays of chilled fruits and water but King Carver waved them away with a flick of his hand, riding past them and under the shade of the portcullis._

_Lord John, Duke of Winchester and battle strategist for the Royal family, stood atop the stone steps leading to the massive double doors of his castle. Scars marred his face; some still pink and healing. His attire was simple and practical, hardly better than a servant’s, but the scabbard at his side shone with the fat used to clean leather and the steel that tipped the end was clearly made by the hand of a master blacksmith. The king and the lord shared no words as they entered the castle side by side. Castiel quickly clambered down from his horse, face flushed from the heat of the day. Looking up at the windows of the castle, Castiel squinted as a blonde girl stood in the window, watching him as he dismounted._

_Paying her no heed Castiel followed the tails of his father’s velvet cloak, desperate not to make a fool of himself._

_Castiel was small for his age, a flaw his father detested but one Castiel loved; it allowed him to move about unnoticed despite his station. As his father marched into the dark war room, where Castiel spied the shine of axes on the walls and a table covered in rolls of parchment, he slipped off down a corridor, opting wander the castle rather than become sequestered in an old man’s war._

_The corridors were flooded with light, illuminating the intricate tapestries on the wall, where griffons laid by the side of winding blue creeks. A small door appeared as Castiel rounded the corner, the iron brackets and roughly hewn wood denoting it as a servant’s door. Regardless, the prince opened the door and after a short trip through a narrow corridor, stepped out into the gardens._

_Red and white roses bloomed in neatly manicured hedges that acted as the borders for the gravel paths. Garden beds dotted the landscape, filled with tulips that glowed as the sun shone through their yellow petals._

_At the centre of the garden was a tall and ancient oak, its green-leafed branches providing shade for a dainty wooden bench that knelt beneath it._

_Worrying his lower lip between his teeth Castiel looked up at the highest branches and then glanced back at the wooden doors that led into the keep, expecting the boom of his father’s voice._

_“Are you a new servant? Or a squire maybe? No, you look too scrawny to be a squire.”_

_Castiel whipped around at the voice and was met with a piercing green gaze, brighter than any emerald that graced a royal’s throat._

_Words escaped the young prince as he stared at the young boy standing in front of him. Castiel’s heart thudded in his chest, certain that this boy would take him back to his father in that dark war room, where blood practically seeped from the granite flagstones._

_“Don’t you know who I am?”_

_Castiel shook his head, all vestiges of his noble upbringing stripped away by the plush pink lips and the butterflies that fluttered in his belly._   
  


_Pouting, the newcomer cocked his head to the side, “I’m Dean, son of Lord John, Duke of Winchester.”_

_Castiel’s cheeks flooded with heat, turning them rosy with his embarrassment, “I’m sorry Sir Dean.”_

_Crossing his arms over his green tunic Dean smiled, “Nobody calls me that here, and I’m not a sir, not yet. I’ll earn my knighthood.”_

_Castiel cocked his head to the side, lips pinched into a thin line as he mulled the thought over in his 10-year-old mind._

_“Would you like me to show you the estate? It can be confusing for new arrivals.” Dean uttered, his carefree grin still firmly in place._

_Breathing out a sigh of relief Castiel gave a nod, feeling his body relax and slacken._

_Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed Castiel’s hand, tugging the boneless prince along._

_“Well, this is my favourite place. My mother would spend a lot of time out here.” Dean murmurs as he runs his fingers along the roses delicately sculpted into the arms of the bench._

_A moment later Dean’s melancholy is swept away by a radiant smile, but one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anyway, on with the tour.”_

_The armoured boots of a guard crunching on the gravel ripped Castiel’s attention away. The royal raven, etched in black upon the silver cuirass, shone like an omen in the peaceful garden. Swallowing the ball of tension in his throat Castiel slips his hand free from Dean’s grasp and hurries over to the lowest branch of the oak tree. Latching onto the dark brown bark, Castiel effortlessly swings himself up onto the branch, legs hanging from either side._

_Dean looks up at Cas, blinking through the dappled light. Castiel’s stomach twists itself into a knot as he notices Dean’s perfectly white teeth and the thick black lashes framing his magnetic eyes._

_The urge to show off rises up in him, the like of which is only felt by children._

_It is only now, when Castiel reflects upon the memory, that it occurs to him that his climb up the tree was more than a young boy at play. Instead, it was a misguided attempt to earn the admiration of a boy who had already captured his affection, romantic or otherwise._

_Castiel pushes himself up to his feet and grabs the next branch above him, taking him higher into the canopy. Castiel looks down, heart racing as Dean’s features are becoming increasingly blurred._

_“Be careful!” Dean calls._

_Castiel’s blue eyes lock onto his next target: a branch that’s even higher than the one he currently perches upon, but which also curves awkwardly to his left. Steeling himself Castiel widens his stance and takes a deep breath of the crisp air. He springs from the branch, arms stretching outwards. When his fingers collide with the flaking bark, he scrabbles up, muscles of his arms burning as he pulls himself on top of the branch, legs kicking wildly in the empty space below him._

_“Are you alright?”_

_After a few agonizing seconds Castiel manages to seat himself on the branch. It sways slightly under him but now that he’s up here, staring down at Dean, it doesn’t seem that high after all._

_“Fine.” Castiel answers in return, placing his back against the trunk and waiting for his heart to stop hammering against his ribs._

_Dean throws another grin up at him and then crosses over to the bench. He lies down on his back and tucks an arm under his head as a pillow. “So what’s your name?”_

_Castiel’s tongue is lead in his mouth. Does he tell a lie to preserve the easy atmosphere?_

_No forced politeness._

_No bowing._

_No ‘your highness’s._

_To be someone else for just an hour, a simple boy free from the mechanizations of court and the plots._

_“Edward.”_

_Dean cocks a brow at the regal name but then closes his eyes against the sunlight._

_“So you’re not scared? You might hurt me or insult me; you would earn the ire of my father. The other children won’t even look me in the eye.” Dean says eyes still closed against the light filtering through the leaves._

_Castiel leans forward, repositioning himself on the tree limb. He lies on his belly, arms and legs dangling precariously on either side._

_“Not particularly.”_

_One of Dean’s eyes ekes open at that, “You must have noble blood in you. Maybe you’re a bastard.”_

_Castiel watches a bumblebee buzz past, “Or maybe I’m just a fool.”_

_Their eyes meet through the length of space between the boy on the bench and the boy in the tree. Silently he reaches up a hand and Castiel extends his fingers in return, futilely groping the air._

_“I like you Edward. I hope you stay.”_

_“Me too.”_

 

+++

 

 

**1358 - Present Day**

 

Dean doesn’t notice the figure watching him from the shadows, the blue eyes that capture his every movement. Dean never notices when the stranger’s chapped lips thin with distain as Dean swallows another pint of ale in one long drag.

 

Dean’s head is light, spinning, and his ears are full of cotton. He feels nothing but the rush of blood thrumming through his veins, carrying with it the sweet numbness of alcohol.

 

Vaguely he’s aware of the warm and soft bodies pressed flush against his sides. Even the smell of the cheap tavern is a subtle taste at the back of his throat.

 

He sways as he stands from the wooden bench, ale splashing over the lip of his tankard. “What shall we drink to girls?”

 

At his question the blonde at his right raised her head from the sticky wooden table; eyes bleary from too much drink and without a word ~~,~~ she slapped her cheek back against the table, unconscious.

 

The brunette on Dean’s left proved to be more responsive as she stood and raised her drink, cheeks rosy as she proclaimed, “We’ll drink to your victory tomorrow. Not that you need any extra luck Sir Dean.”

 

Swallowing down a mouthful of the bitter ale, Dean shakes his head, grimacing slightly as the world tips and sways around him, “Just Dean is fine.”

 

The brunette at his side shrugs her shoulders and slings an arm around the back of Dean’s neck, curling her fingers against the sensitive skin by the shell of Dean’s ear, “You are too kind _Dean_. You’ll make a girl blush.”

 

Dean merely nods, his gaze caught by her ample cleavage balancing on the edge of the brunette’s kirtle, a long sunflower hued dress.

 

A hand lands on Dean’s shoulder, tearing his gaze from the gentle curve of the woman’s bust.

 

Cerulean eyes stare out from the shadows of a drawn hood. Even with his blurred vision Dean can see the high thread count, the soft wool and the neat stitching in the cape that betray the stranger’s wealth.

 

“What do you want?” Dean slurs, taking another sip from the bone tankard.

 

“You have an important day tomorrow don’t you Dean? Shouldn’t you stop this gluttony and retire for the night?”

 

Dean’s brow corrugates as he ducks his head slightly, trying to steal a glimpse of the stranger’s face. He takes a step back, pulling the hood of his cloak tighter around him.

 

Tilting his chin up, Dean slowly raises the tankard to his lips, the smell of the sour brew thick in his nostrils, as he baits the stranger. “What’s some rich boy going to do about it, huh?”

 

The stranger darts forward, hand faster than an adder’s strike and swipes the tankard from Dean’s lax fingers. Without pause the stranger, with a flick of his wrist, sends the contents into Dean’s face with a wet slap.

 

The tavern is overcome with a thick silence. Slowly, Dean wipes his hand over his face, wiping away the moisture, but leaving his skin feeling sticky. Dean’s gaze is murderous; his hand falls to the pommel of his sword. Muscles tense, fingers grope for weapons. The brunette disentangles herself from Dean, eyes widening as she sees Dean square his shoulders and roll his neck, eliciting several sharp cracks and pops. The atmosphere is thick with the promise of violence.

 

“I may be drunk but I’m not drunk enough take an insult from some spoilt little bastard. No one makes a fool of a knight.”

 

The shrouded figure stands in the quiet tavern, unaffected by the words.

 

Dean’s grip tightens on his sword but with a steadying breath he pushes away the anger pulsing in his temple, “I don’t like hurting people, so if you leave now I won’t have to beat you, alright?”

 

The stranger’s head cocks to the side, “Why would I apologize to some spoilt little bastard?”

 

Later Dean would blame the alcohol, use the memories and feelings he was trying to drown with cheap piss to justify his drinking, but deep down he knew that was a lie. He was just another angry drunkard.

 

Dean felt himself move, muscles bunching and clinging tight to bone as he grabbed the man’s shoulders, fingers digging in deep and leaving spots of violet bruises on the fair skin.

 

With a firm yank downward on the man’s shoulder, Dean brought up his knee, plunging it deep into the stranger’s diaphragm as he doubled him over. A cough and a rattling groan of pain is the only sound the stranger can utter before Dean is throwing him back towards the doors.

 

With a bang the stranger falls through the open doorway, landing on his back in the cold, wet mud. Stars burst like spitting coals before his eyes; his breath escapes his tight lungs.

 

There’s a slosh of mud and then Dean is standing above him, features hidden by the shadows of night and the light spilling from the open tavern door behind him. Only his outline remains, lit by the orange glow of the tavern’s roaring fire.

 

Dean kneels next to him, hand hovering over the edge of his cowl. The stranger rolls onto his side, curling up into himself, making himself a smaller target.

 

The hand retreats and instead of the brunt impact he had been expecting, the stranger feels a slight brush of air as Dean stands.

 

“Only cowards hide, boy. Next time you want to insult me, do it without the disguise.”

 

The stranger hears the squelch of Dean’s boots in the mud as he walks away and then the thud of the heavy tavern doors slamming closed. Seconds later he hears raucous laughter burst inside the tavern, further muffled by the ringing in his ears.

 

Fingers curling in the mud the stranger lies in the freezing dead of night, concentrating on breathing, on dragging in air into his bruised chest.

Eventually though he forces himself to sit up. The light from the tavern’s small glass windows turns the frost kissed mud into a brown cloak studded with diamonds.  

 

Slowly he pushes himself to his feet, wincing as he feels his injuries throb in a tight iron band around his stomach.

 

His horse is still tethered to the post and with a strange lurching gait the stranger makes his way to the white stallion and unties the reins, then tucks his foot into the stirrup before swinging himself up into the soft leather saddle. With cold stiffened fingers he takes the reins and clicks his tongue, urging the horse into a loping trot.

 

The wind stings his cheeks, the stars overhead serve as his lamplight as he follows the road back to the castle, which sits on the periwinkle tinged horizon.

 

Guards at the gate stand at attention as he passes, tapping their pikes to the gravel covered pathways as he and his horse pass. As the stranger rounds the corner the stables were revealed as well as the figure of a short man standing there, shoulder leaning against the polished wood and feet crossed at the ankles.

 

The rider sighed, shoulders sagging as he spotted the telltale gold chain that glimmered over the purple breast of the man’s finery. His leggings were a brilliant topaz that ended with sickly orange shoes, completing the lurid outfit The man grinned and pushed himself off the wall, fingers steepled under his chin.

 

“Prince Castiel, I would inquire as to why you are covered in mud and why you are returning at such an ungodly hour, but the guessing games are much more fun.”

 

Castiel pulled off his hood, shivering in the chill of predawn.

 

“I have no time to entertain you Lord Gabriel. Please leave me be.”

 

Gabriel’s fingers untangled themselves from under his chin as he placed a finger on his lip, humming a toneless tune. “Nope, I don’t think I will my Prince. If you can’t entertain me, the least I can do is entertain myself.”

 

Castiel dismounted, wincing at the strain on his concealed brusies.

 

“Are you badly injured my Lord?”

 

Looping the reins over the stallion’s head Castiel walked past Gabriel, deigning to ignore the brightly attired noble altogether. The royal stables were a grand and long structure, where at least 40 horses at a time could be housed in a long row. The oaken structure was smooth to the touch and thick bales of hay were lush and golden.

 

Gabriel leaned towards Castiel, standing on his tiptoes, “And you reek like a whore house! This keeps getting better.”

 

Silently Castiel pulled his stallion into his stable, and then promptly untied the girth and slipped the saddle off the horse’s back. Immediately the horse put its head into the wooden barrel containing its oats, the sounds of its teeth grinding the food filling the temporary silence.

 

“Gabriel” Castiel murmured, “Please keep this a secret. If it reached my father…I fear for his health.”

 

Slapping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder Gabriel’s eyes twinkled like polished brass, “Not to worry Castiel, I shall be and always will be your ally and friend.”

 

Castiel let out a long suffering sigh, watching his breath mist before his lips, “Thank you.”

 

 

+++

 

 

The horse’s hooves squelched in the thick mud outside the tavern. It was a squat two-storey building, where every second window had no glass to speak of, hinting at brawls and disorderly drunken patrons. The wooden beams the building was constructed out of were rough and thin with cheap iron nails precariously keeping the structure intact.

 

The stable next to the tavern was little better than a pigsty. A black mare stood inside, tail swishing irritably as a young squire brushed down its side. Hanging up on a hook on the outside wall of the stable was a suit of armour, made of a dark grey iron; heavy but dependable. Despite that, the armour possessed several large dents and scratches.

 

Sam dismounted from his horse, brow corrugated as the mud sucked at his shoes. Pushing open the door of the tavern Sam glanced around the dimly lit place, noticing the bone tankards that festooned the tables and the bar like seeds pollinating a dark brown field.

 

A woman stood behind the bar, half asleep as she wiped down the tacky surface.

 

“Haven’t you woke him yet?” Sam asked of the woman.

 

Startled from her reverie the woman’s head jerked up, straw blonde hair falling around her face, “I tried milord…”

 

Shaking his head slightly Sam made his way up the stairs, jaw clenching as he felt a ringing begin to build inside his skull.

 

Meanwhile, Dean slept peacefully, his drunkenness having ushered in a deep and dreamless sleep. Morning sunlight peaked through the open window, brining with it cool fresh air. Dean groaned and turned over; sighing contentedly as the morning sun warmed the naked skin of his back. When he flung out his arm Dean’s fingers felt the soft roundness of a bosom, eliciting an indignant sleepy moan from the woman.

 

Her brown lashes fluttered as she awakened, “Isn’t the tourney today milord?”

 

At that moment the door flung open, banging against the wall, “God preserve me.”

 

Rolling onto his back Dean snatched a stray lumpy pillow and tucked it on top of his bed-ruffled hair.

 

“Dean wake up.” The voice bit out irritably, “If you would excuse us, my lady?”

 

The bed shifted as the woman rolled out of bed, taking with her the soft heat radiating off her body. Darting over to the corner of the room she pulled on her kirtle, face reddened with shame, and snatched up her shoes before fleeing the room as quickly as she could manage.

 

“Sammy….” Dean groaned.

 

Shaking his head Sam rips back the thin sheets, exposing Dean’s naked body to the crisp autumn air.

 

“What are you doing?” Dean shrieks whilst trying to recover the bed sheets to preserve the remnants of his dignity.

 

Rolling his eyes Sam folds his arms over his chest, digging his nails into his forearm to keep his voice level, “My brother, you shriek in such a manly fashion as to make any warrior envious.”

 

Scrubbing a hand through his hair Dean whines, “Fuck, can’t a man be left to sleep in peace?”

 

Sam stands firm, dirtied bed sheets clutched in his hands, grimacing as he looks down at the filthy veneer on the linen.

 

“You have fifteen minutes to get ready and here you are; covered in all manner of fluids. Do not test me brother.”

 

Dean sits up and pouts, pushing out his plump rose lips. “C’mon Sammy, don’t shout. I’ve got a migraine.”

 

Sam throws the covers in Dean’s face, taking the delirious knight by surprise, who then struggles to disentangle himself from the mess.

 

“You need to make yourself presentable. I’m calling your squire to prepare Impala and your armour in five minutes.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes and swings his legs over the straw mattress.

 

Sam points his index finger at Dean, hazel eyes narrowed, “Don’t make me come up here again.”

 

The door slams as Sam strides out, making Dean wince as the sound splinters through his skull. Stumbling over to the washbasin Dean grabs the washcloth and dips it into the cool water. With a quick twist he wrings off the excess moisture and starts by wiping his face, digging into the crease of his eyes, rubbing away the hard granules of sleep. Next he wipes his mouth, where the taste of the brunette’s skin still lingers like a stubborn infection on his lip. There’s a quick cursory wipe to his body and a through scrub of his groin and thighs, wiping away the dried trails of last night’s encounter.

 

Pulling open a drawer Dean got out his linens and arming doublet, quickly dragging them over his wet skin.

 

There was a knock at the door, the pounding of which sent bolts of pain bursting through his head. Without invitation the door opened, revealing Dean’s squire.

 

Cropped blonde hair crowned a delicate pale face, where chocolate brown eyes were shooting daggers at Dean as he sat down on the edge of his mattress, cradling his head in his hands.

 

“I brought up your sabatons so you don’t have to walk in the mud with just your stockings.”

 

Raising up the dented armour boots the squire let them drop from their fingers, allowing them to come crashing onto the wooden floorboards.

 

Lifting his head from his hands Dean squinted down at the boots, “Did you have to do that Jo?”

 

Jo shrugged her shoulders, “I’ll be downstairs with the rest of your armour, be quick about it though. I didn’t trust arming you up here, you’d fall down the stairs and twist your neck. Then where would we be?”

 

Turning on her heel Jo bounced down the steps, light on her feet in total contrast to Dean’s sluggish movements as he plopped one foot and then the other into their armour.

 

Minutes later though Dean was trudging down the steps and breathing the clean air outside. Heading over to Jo by the stables, Dean nodded and held out his arms, letting her affix each piece of armour to his body. Dean closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nostrils.

 

“Tell me if you’re going to be sick, I’d rather not wash your vomit from my hair today.”

 

Dean holds up a hand, staying Jo’s hand from tightening the straps of his cuirass, “Then you had better move.”

 

Turning aside Dean doubled over, retching and spluttering as Jo patted his back ~~.~~ ,  “All done?”

 

Wiping his armoured hand over his lips Dean nodded and stood straight again, willing the world to stop spinning and his stomach’s content to stop rising up into his throat.

 

Soon though, Dean was clambering onto Impala’s back and with a helpful push from Jo he settled into the familiar worn saddle. Dean’s horse whinnies and paws at the ground, her black hide shining from her morning’s brush. In the distance Dean spied a myriad of colorful banners whipping in the breeze, framing the rather modest Lord’s manor that rested on the top of a hill. Horns blared, echoing down the valley.

 

Climbing onto her own palomino horse Jo led the way to the Tourney grounds, holding aloft Dean’s banner; two rampant golden griffons, one on the left and the other on the right, both facing a white shield that is dotted by four ivy leaves.

 

The path from the tavern to the grounds was a churned flurry of mud, straw and detritus, transforming the white-feathered hooves of Impala into a dark brown. Her ears flickered forward as Dean led her into the entrance to the tourney grounds. Great wooden stands, filled on one side with the poorer classes, yellowed teeth beaming with excitement as they jostle each other for space on the roughly hewn benches. On the other side sat the nobles, replete in silks, jewels, and gold that glimmered under the bright autumn sun.

 

Nudging Impala’s black flanks with his spurs Dean nudged her into a trot as he rode up to the side of the noble’s stand. Behind the lord’s regal chair sat Sam. Spying him, Dean shot him a grin, but Sam merely sighed, dark bags heavy under his eyes. Dean’s smile faltered for a moment but regained its luminosity as Sam managed to eke out a lopsided smirk. The Lord smiled as Dean approached, leaning forward in his cushioned seat, “Sir Dean, I hear tales of your drinking last night. I hope it does not impede your performance today.”

 

Dean offered the porcine man a thin smile, “No my lord, I am perfectly healthy and prepared for today, and so I ask your very lovely wife for the pleasure of competing for her.”

 

Lady Braeden stood, rosy lips moistened with wine. From her wrist she took a piece of ivory lace and leaning over the balcony passed it to Dean’s proffered hand, “It would be my honour to bless you this day Sir Dean. Good luck.”

 

Smirking Dean wound the soft fabric around his wrist, “No such thing as luck.”

 

With that Dean clicked his tongue, encouraging Impala to canter back to his end of the tilt. The tilt this time was made of thick sturdy wood, separating the riders, and draped over it was Lord Braeden’s colours; brown and gold with bristled boars.

 

His opponent on the opposite end, sat astride an enormous brown horse with short legs, more cow than noble steed. The horses’ tail flicked irritably whilst the knight took his ruby lance from his squire.

 

Cupping his hand over his eyes Dean squinted through the sunshine at the knight, “Who would that be?”

 

Raising her eyes from her work Jo glanced down the field and pointed to the banner flying atop the pole a young boy was holding, “That would be Sir Aidan. He is a good competitor Milord.”

 

Huffing through his nostrils Dean leans back in his saddle, “Even with a hangover I’ll beat all of these country knights, no problem.”

 

Rolling her eyes Jo passes Dean his lance; painted white with a vine of ivy leaves circling the length of wood. “Don’t be so cocky Dean. You’re a simple country knight too, otherwise you would be competing in the Royal Tourney in a month’s time.”

 

Clenching his jaw Dean hefted the lance, testing its weight.

 

A short, thin man with a face pinched like a rodent’s walked out onto the field; a small bugle from which the Lord’s banner hung was tucked under his arm. Placing it to his lips three sharp notes rang out, ushering silence from the gathered crowd.

 

“Welcome one and all to Lord Braeden’s Tourney. My gracious Lord is offering any knight the chance to display his prowess with the lance and on horseback. For the one man skilled and chivalrous enough he shall win the Lord’s prize, presented by Lord Braeden himself.”

 

Clearing his throat the man put the horn to his lips again, this time blowing out a longer sonorous note, “Today’s tourney begins with Sir Aidan of David’s Son against Sir Dean of Winchester. Let the Tourney begin!”

 

Snapping his helmet’s visor down, Dean pressed his spurs into Impala’s side, sending her into a gallop as he leveled his lance. The figure of Lord Aidan swayed in the thin gap of Dean’s helmet, vomit rose to Dean’s throat, bitter with the taint of bile and stale alcohol.

 

Swallowing it down Dean narrowed his eyes, and braced himself. Thick splinters of wood sprayed over the tilt and chimed against Dean’s armour as his lance struck the knight’s chest. The other knight’s lance dropped from his grasp, bouncing off the tilt and narrowly missing Impala’s legs as she galloped onwards. Sir Aidan’s hand gripped the horn of his saddle, steadying himself.

 

“One point to Sir Dean!”

 

Dean smirked as Impala trotted back to Jo and flipped up his helm’s visor, “See that? Not too hung-over to hit that oaf eh?”

 

Clenching her jaw, Jo bent down to pick up a new lance, “Just don’t make a fool of yourself okay?”

 

Shrugging, Dean slotted the back end of the lance into its groove in the saddle and wrapped his arm around it, securing it tightly.  With his other hand he flicked his visor back down and waited for the crier to flash the flag again.

 

The banner was waved and Dean kicked Impala’s side. With a jerk she leapt forward, nostrils flaring and chest heaving as she raced down the side of the tile. Tilting his chin downwards Dean watched Sir Aidan draw closer, his own lance swaying due to his mount’s clumsy gait.

 

Adjusting his grip on his lance Dean angled it upwards, aiming for the helm. In the last precious seconds before impact a sudden heat washed over Dean, the migraine pounding his skull refreshed its efforts, causing Dean’s arm to waver.

 

It was like being hit by a battering ram--the wind was punched from his lungs. He swayed to the left, Impala’s sweaty girth strap making the saddle slip with it. He felt himself falling, gravity pushing him downwards.

 

“Dean!”

 

Pushing down on the right stirrup Dean pulled the saddle back in place, righting himself atop of Impala.  Dean’s stomach however continued to heave.

 

“One point to Sir Aidan. The score is tied.”

 

“Are you alright?” A quiver of anxiety colored Jo’s words.

 

Ripping his helm off Dean turned his head and crunched over to vomit.

 

Clucking her tongue Jo leaned up and passed Dean a crude handkerchief, “Hurry and wipe your face, there’s only a few seconds before the crier sends the signal for the third round.”

 

A wan smile pulls at Dean’s waxen face, “Did you call my name Jo? I’m touched.”

 

Shaking her head Jo grimaces as she takes back the soiled cloth, “No, I don’t know who called out to you. Maybe some woman who’s taken a fancy to you?

 

Quickly putting his helm back on Dean leaves the visor up, causing Jo to raise a brow.

 

“I feel like a rat in an iron oven, I can hardly see through that tiny little slit.”

 

Glancing over to the noble’s stand Dean sees the colour drain from Sam’s face. The banner flashes, Sir Aidan’s mount rears and then falls into a mad ungainly gallop.

 

Quickly grabbing a new lance from Jo, Dean prods Impala and sucks in a breath. The air cools the sweat beading on his forehead. His world narrows to the point of his lance, the methodical beats of hooves against sand, of the fabric of the tilt swaying in the breeze and of the rider barreling towards him. Again, Dean angles the lance upward but this time his hand is steady.

 

Dean’s lance hits home, sending Sir Aidan’s helm flying. The man himself though stubbornly clings onto the saddle though he is bent backwards, almost lying flat on the rump of his horse.

 

“The round goes to Sir Dean!”

 

The crowd cheers, a raucous boom as they stand and clap all at once.

 

 

+++

 

 

Dean sits under the shade of a raised cloth, held aloft at four points by simple posts. Jo sits with him, polishing his armour and replacing the leather straps where needed. The pair watch the rest of the rounds whilst sipping water. Jo eats from a platter of fruit and cured meats but when Dean is offered some he looks away and holds his breath, willing the queasiness away.

 

Dean competes once more and triumphs, six points to two.

 

Soon though, as the sun is moving behind the hills the last round is upon them, Dean stands and lets Jo attach his suit of battered armour to his sore muscles.

 

“Feeling better now? With all the vomiting you’ve been doing I should imagine that cheap swill you drank last night should almost be gone now.”

 

Frowning, Dean looks to Jo, “I’m still not at my best.”

 

With a snap the chest piece is in place and Dean is fully armoured again. Taking a step back, Jo puts a finger to her chin.

 

Dean’s old armour is bulky and outdated, the edges are rough and nicked and the bolts holding it together rust at the edges, making the armour squeak and hard to move in. Yet Dean moves admirably in it, swinging his arms up and down to test the fit.

 

“If you do win we should get you some new armour.”

 

Dean’s lips part with an audible pop; “There’s nothing wrong with my armour. It’s…a classic. Besides, I don’t need the money as much as the rest of the county. We still have the taxes to pay.”

 

Jo nods and claps Dean’s back, leading him to Impala. The mare is already armoured, hers is also of a similar quality; rusted, dented and ugly.

 

“No other Lord or knight would care for their people Dean. You’re a good man.” with a playful push she makes Dean stumble a step, causing him to grip Impala’s saddle lest he fall, “But make sure you win.”

 

Climbing into Impala’s saddle Dean tucks his helm under his arm, standing in Impala’s stirrups to stretch his back.

 

A white horse appeared, clothed in ethereal white banners that streamed over the curves of its shining plate armour. The horse raised its head; ears pricked and shadowed eyes alert. Its tail was held in a neat bun and it’s long legs and muscular frame betrayed it as a stock destrier, the most prized breed of warhorse.

 

The rider wore a great silver helm with gold filigree creating the illusion of feathers, but the man’s features were concealed behind his drawn visor. The man’s armour was finely crafted with tiny gold crosses acting as the joints and rivets holding the armour together.

 

Although Dean could tell the man was slender under his armour he raised his midnight blue lance as easily as any of the other knights.

 

“Who is that?” Dean queried, ignoring the crawling feeling of trepidation scratching at the back of his neck. Pushing away the temptation to touch his neck Dean pulls on his helm, making sure the visor is down and secure.

 

Jo shrugged, “Ah, you missed his matches whilst you were being sick. That’s Sir Emmanuel, in all his rounds he achieved perfect scores.”

 

The announcer walked out onto the field again, passing his eyes over the crowd and resting them for a moment longer on the white knight ~~.~~ ,“The final bout is upon us. Good luck Sir Emmanuel, Sir Dean, may God be with you and guide you.”

 

As Dean watches the horse fly into motion, plain white banners fanning out either side with the silver knight straight and proud atop his mount, he is reminded of the paintings in Church; of avenging angels come to punish the sinners of the world.

 

His stomach is twisting itself into knots as he feels Impala lurch into motion, black mane whisked into a wild wave in the wind. Dean grips his lance so hard he swears he’ll bruise but the knight riding towards him has his heart palpitating.

 

The horses cross either side, white on the left, black on the right, allowing the rider’s lances to cross over the tilt. There’s a hiss of wood as they slide and splinter against one another.

 

The cry of pain is muffled in his helm and on instinct his other arm reaches for the bridge of his saddle and his heels dig downwards, securing him in his seat.

 

Impala trots towards Jo and then comes to a stop.

 

“One point to Sir Dean and one point to Sir Emmanuel.”

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” Dean mutters as he reaches for his arm, holding his shoulder tight against his body.

 

Glancing down Jo is staring up at him, eyes wide, “…Dean?”

 

Shaking his head Dean lets go of his arm, feeling the heat of the injury flare up in the muscles and tendons of his arm. “I’ll be okay Jo.”

 

Swinging his gaze to the noble’s stand he sees Sam shift in his seat, hands gripping the arms of his wooden chair. Dean’s grimace is hidden by his helm as he raises his injured arm, feigning wellness. The peasants cry, as though it is their triumph and the noble’s simply clap.

 

“Alright Jo, just two more rounds, we can do this.” Dean reaches out a hand and takes the next lance.

 

“Just…let a healer look at your arm afterwards, alright?”

 

All Dean can afford is a quick nod as the brown and gold flag is waved again. The white knight’s horse is a beast of acceleration, missing its trot and canter altogether as it falls into an elegant gallop.

 

Not one to let the competition show her up Impala rears, exposing her belly and then jumps forward, bursting onto the field and into a wild gallop.

 

Tucking his chin down against his chest Dean watches the rider, adjusting his lance slightly.

 

Vomit gurgled at the base of his throat, hot and acidic.

 

“Not now.” Dean murmured as he squared his jaw. The impact of his lance sent vibrations through his arm as it splintered against the white knight’s shoulder, barely missing the knight’s throat.

 

The white knight’s lance swayed and missed Dean entirely.

 

“One point to Sir Dean.”

 

The excited cries of the crowd beat down on Dean’s back and filled his blood with confidence. The pain in his arm seemed to dissolve as he turned to face them. They waved and raised their tankards, spilling their drinks over one another.

 

In contrast was the silence of the noble’s. As Dean took his final lance from Jo he rolled his shoulders, wincing at the flare of pain that shot through him, “At least the peasantry likes me.”

 

Jo stood back from Impala as the crier walked out onto the field, ready to signal for the final round. “They call you the people’s knight y’know. So don’t disappoint them.”

 

The final round was upon them, Jo smacked Impala’s rear and this time Impala was the first onto the field and it was only a split second later and Sir Emmanuel was as well. ~~~~

Dean felt a grin split his face under his helm. The prize was as good as his.

 

Their lances crossed, navy against ivory.

 

Dean didn’t feel anything; just saw black seep like squid’s ink over his vision.

 

When the stars bursting in front of his eyes clear they reveal a periwinkle blue sky, dotted by wisps of clouds.

 

His head hurts, from more than just the hangover.

 

The silver helm of a knight splits the vision of the sky. His hand reaches down, yanking off Dean’s helmet and lets his head fall unceremoniously into the sand. The small thud hurts but soon the cool ground encasing the back of Dean’s head is a balm.

 

For a moment the masked knight just watches him.

Dean says nothing, doesn’t move.

Slowly the knight reaches up to his own helm and pulls it off.

 

“Castiel?”

 

Scintillating blue eyes narrow, “I am your prince. Address me as such Sir Dean.”

 

Dean’s mouth is drier than sand paper, bottling the jumble of words in his throat.

The dark brown tousled hair is the same, slightly damp from the sweat of the tourney. The chapped lips are the same as well, though this time they are thinned with resentment.

 

With a click Castiel undoes the clasp of his gauntlet and drops it, offering his delicate milky hand to Dean, “Do you need help getting to your feet _knight_? Or shall I kick you when you’re already down and mired with mud?”

 

Blurred flashes of the stranger last night flash into Dean’s memories.

 

The anger that heats Dean’s cheeks is tempered only by his guilt. Batting Castiel’s hand away Dean clambers to his feet, head ringing with a dozen church bells. Leaning forward Dean whispers into the shell of Castiel’s ear, “Just like old time _my prince_. Too scared to be who you are.”

 

Dean’s shoulder brushes past Castiel’s as he stalks away, helmet held loosely in the tips of his fingers. Turning on his heel Castiel watches Dean stalk away, revealing his face to the Lord.

Lord Braeden stands, mouth flapping in mimicry of a dying fish, “P-Prince Castiel?”

 

A hushed silence falls over the gathered the crowd.

 

Huffing out a sigh Castiel looks at the crowd and wordlessly walks back to his squire, handing Inias his helm before clambering onto the back of Blade, his stallion, wordlessly.

 

“Ah, my Prince!” calls the Lord Braeden, a nervous smile quivering on his lips, “You won the tourney. Should you not claim your prize?”

 

Castel glances over his shoulder, sharp gaze catching Dean watching him, whose hands are curled into tight fists at his side.

 

“Of course Lord Braeden, it would be ungracious of me not to accept.”

 

Swinging his leg back over Blade’s hind, Castiel lightly hops down from his horse, seemingly unencumbered by his armour.

 

The hundreds of eyes staring at him are a physical weight. Suddenly the armour is a heavy furnace, roasting him alive. Lord Braeden is hurrying out to meet Castiel, rolls of fat quibbling under his chins.

Inhaling through his nostrils Castiel smells the musk of the horses, the faint metallic sting of spilled blood and the cloying smell of fruity wine emanating from the Lord.

 

With a low bow the Lord grins, showing too much of his pink gums. The gangly crier is at his side, holding three gold ornaments on a red velvet pillow. Castiel shifts his weight from foot to foot, making his armour creak and steals another deep breath. This time he smells something else, the faint sharpness of ale and a bright spice like cinnamon.

 

Glancing to his side Castiel quickly reverts his gaze back to the crier.

 

Dean’s face is the picture of fury; his normally emerald eyes are a stormy green, his full lips are compressed into a thin line and his jaw is clenched so tightly that the little tendon on his jaw keeps pressing against his tanned skin.

 

“In third place,” The crier begins, “is Sir Eric, son of Gerard of Lorsse.”

 

There’s a pause as Lord Braeden takes a small silver hound off the pillow and passes it into the open gauntlet of Sir Eric.

 

“In second place is Sir Dean, son of Lord John, Duke of Winchester.”

 

The crowd roars its approval but the blush that colors Dean’s face is not from pleasure but from shame. Demurely, he holds out his hand and receives his prize, a golden fish statuette.

 

When the crier turns to face Castiel the crowd falls silent. The air is charged and tense as the crier addresses the prince.

 

“And in first place, it is with greatest pleasure that I announce Prince Castiel, son of King Carver, ruler of the kingdom of Salvation and her provinces, Holy ruler under God’s command and first in line to the Throne, the winner of Lord Braeden’s tourney.”

 

There is no cheering or shouts of jubilation as Lord Braeden’s quivering hands delicately passes a golden dove with sapphires inset into its eyes to Castiel.

 

Dean watches the prize he had envisioned being passed to another. Numbly he looks down at his minute statue. The dove would have paid all of the taxes and there would have been gold to spare to fill the storehouses with grain for the winter. Now the people of his father’s province would starve, the fish wouldn’t even cover the full cost of the taxes.

 

Lord Braeden bows to Castiel and rattles on about his fine estate and the grand celebratory feast, “You must attend.” Then, shaking his head, the Lord offers Castiel a meek smile, “I did not mean to command you, only offer you a place at my table. You would honor my family and I greatly.”

 

“Of course Lord Braeden. Once again I would not be so rude as to refuse your offer. I will ride back to Salvation Castle in the morning.” Castiel supplies, before turning on his heel and striding back to Inias, desperate to be free of the crowd’s attention.

 

Inias appears at Castiel’s side and slips the dove from his shining gauntlets.

Castiel walks with Inias to the elaborate indigo tent that has been erected for him, where silver stars dot the edges. Amidst the other simple tents it suddenly seems obvious to Dean and the nobles that something about ‘Sir Emmanuel’ was amiss.

 

Once the flap of the tent is down Castiel collapses onto a wooden stool and holds his head in his hands. Inias, ever silent, sets to his task of taking off his master’s armour.

“Inias…” Castiel murmurs. Pausing, Inias turns to look the heir in the face, “Yes, my Prince?” Scrubbing his fingers through his hair Castiel’s lips are pinched at the corners, “Have I made a terrible mistake?”

 

Inias gently pushes Castiel into a sitting position so he can unfasten the leather straps at his shoulders, allowing the cuirass to fall free. “It depends on why you decided to compete, milord.” Inias’ fingers hover over the spaulder, the plate armour that protects Castiel’s shoulder.

 

Pushing himself to his feet Castiel lets his eyes slip closed, “Sorry Inias, it would be easier for you if I stood wouldn’t it?” Bowing his head slightly Inias returns to his work of readying Castiel for the feast.

 

 

+++

 

 

The full moon shines through the tall glass windows, illuminating the corners of the hall where the luminescence of the raging fire can’t penetrate.

 

The banquet hall is magnificent, the largest room of Lord Braden’s keep.

A long wooden table sits at the head of the room, covered in a silky white tablecloth with tiny roses sewn into the fabric. Upon it silver plates hold all manners of delicacies, ranging from suckling pig boiled in milk to glazed cherries and candied pomegranate seeds.

 

Dean wanders in, attired in his best finery, but even then it was out of fashion. His tunic reached his thighs, too long for the current trends and was made out of rough black wool. His brown trousers were too baggy and the knees were worn down to a sad grey. Half of the servants pouring wine were better dressed. Dean’s look was completed by his arm in a linen sling due to his dislocated shoulder, courtesy of Prince Castiel.

 

Sam appeared a pace behind him. Unlike his brother, his work at the royal court meant that he could not afford to be behind on the pulse of current fashions. His doublet was a tight fitting ruby red that accentuated the strength of his shoulders and broad chest and his trousers were a silky grey.

 

“I look like an idiot. Remind me why you made me change out of my plate armour?” Dean scowled, seeming to shrink in upon himself as his shoulders slumped and he hung his head slightly, trying his best to avoid the eyes of other attendees.

 

Lip quirking Sam set his hand down on his brother’s shoulder blade, “You look fine and plus, it has to be more comfortable than your armour.”

 

“Pfft, you’re just used to it. I can practically feel people judging me. At least in my armour people are too scared to stare for too long.”

 

Rolling his eyes Sam guided Dean to the head table. The victors were to sit in a row next to Lord Braeden but Sam’s status at court and the fact that Dean was a notoriously troublesome guest at formal affairs allowed Sam to sit next to his brother. Plopping down onto his seat, Dean hunkered down, wrapping his arm around his sling, effectively crossing his arms as best as he can manage. Sam is straight backed, spine perfectly in line with the tall chair and listens to the musicians in the corner of the hall, playing all manner of whimsical string and wood instruments.

 

Dean rested with his chin on his chest and stared at the roast pheasant, eyes drooping from the days jousting and the lack of sleep from his misguided drinking the night before. Stretching out his legs under the table Dean sighed at the burn in his muscles and was dozing off, when from some unseen signal, the musicians stopped playing and the conversation died quicker than a rock being dropped into a shallow pond.

 

Peeling open his eyes Dean looked to the entrance where Prince Castiel stood, pinned by the hundreds of eyes upon him.

 

His doublet shone like the waters of a deep lake, an intense blue that reflected the flames of the candles. Upon his breast rested a delicate white gold chain, where a raven was suspended with yellow gold lines tracing the feathers and highlighting the claws. His trousers were perfectly tailored, fitted to his long athletic legs and giving him the appearance of being much taller.

 

Castiel’s gaze cut through the room and landed upon Dean. Not one to back down, Dean straightened in his chair and glared back at the prince, arm aching as a reinforcement of his dislike of the man.

 

Quietly Castiel strode towards the main table and with a growing horror Dean realized that the last seat was the one to his left. A servant was ready by the chair and pulled it out, allowing Castiel to gracefully be seated. The music started again and soon swelled into a deep string piece.

 

Distracting himself from the looming presence of the prince, Dean reached for the pheasant and with his knife, cut a long succulent piece off the breast and skewered it with his knife; placing it on his plate, steam still wafting from the meat.

 

As Dean chewed his pheasant, enjoying the subtle hints of rosemary baked into the meat he valiantly tried to ignore Castiel next to him. Without looking he _knew_ the prince was watching him.

 

Just like last night, when Castiel, the heir to the throne, had been watching him in the tavern.  The _prince_ that he had beaten and thrown into the mud.

 

Reaching for his goblet Dean took a gulp of the red wine.

 

“After today’s performance I would have thought you would have chosen water over more alcohol.”

 

Castiel’s smile was pleasant enough when Dean turned to face him, but the mischievous glint in his eye told him that the prince was baiting him again.

 

“I can handle my drink,” Dean sniped, before taking another long drink from his goblet, hardly tasting the expensive spiced wine.

 

“Are we going to have a repeat of last night?” Castiel mocked as he picked out a plump sugar coated strawberry.

 

Dean found himself transfixed as he watched Castiel’s chapped lips part and mold themselves around the fruit, dusting his lips with granules of sugar. Castiel bit down on the fruit, a hint of red shining on his lips. Time seemed to move like molasses as Castiel’s tongue swiped over his lips, leaving them shiny and wet. Shifting in his seat Dean looked down at his own plate and tried not to think too hard about the prince’s lips, berating himself internally for the strange fixation. Placing his elbow on the table Dean rested his chin in the palm of his hand and tried to sound as casual as possible, “If I could punch you again and get away with it, I would. You’re lucky to be a prince.”

 

A maudlin mood overcame Castiel as he considered it, “Do you think that?” Gesturing vaguely at the room he continued, “To constantly be watched, to be at the center of every plot and judged for my rank rather than for who I am? Yes, envious indeed.”

 

Placing his cup back on the table Dean stared back at Castiel, noticing beneath the richness of his clothes, the lines that already marked the young man’s face and the dark circles plaguing the skin of his eyes.

 

Taking Sam’s cup of water he swapped it with his own, prompting Sam to raise a brow, shrug and then take a sip of Dean’s discarded wine.

At that Castiel smiles.

  
“I think that’s the first real smile I’ve seen from you since…”

 

“…since we were children?” Castiel supplies.

 

Dean’s brows draw together, feeling his chest twinge.

Clearing his throat Castiel quickly changes the subject, “Your arm? I hope it’s not a serious injury.”

 

Glancing down at the linen triangle holding up his arm Dean exhaled noisily through his nostrils, “ It isn’t, the healers say that all I need is a day of rest. I wouldn’t have worn the stupid thing but Sam is very persuasive. He’s got these puppy eyes and…”

 

Sam nudged Dean in the ribs, blush powdering his cheeks. Castiel takes a sip of his water, concealing his lips.

Ever the diplomat Castiel seamlessly changes the conversation’s flow, “I noticed that you had a female squire.”

 

Dean quirked a brow, drawing the red grape he was about to eat away from his lips, “Is that a problem for you?”

 

Castiel couldn’t help the impish smile at the lack of formality, the memory of that day in the garden warming his chest, “No, I was just curious. I think women are more capable than most give them credit for.”

 

Dean hummed noncommittally, “Her father fought in the war with my father and he died protecting John…and so it was only fair to give Jo and her mother rooms in Winchester Castle. Jo insisted on helping in a more practical way, she didn’t want to be some court bitch.”

 

Lady Braeden’s head turned at the word, eyes narrowed.

“Ah, forgive me my Lady.” Dean fumbled, sinking lower into his chair. A laugh spilled from Castiel’s lips, “And?”

 

Popping the grape into his mouth Dean shrugged, “And ever since then Jo has been my squire. No one else has come close to matching her skills.”

 

Castiel leans back in his seat, slowly relaxing. “You’re a good man, that much is obvious. But be careful when you drink, I’ve seen too many men fall to that particular vice.” Immediately Dean stiffens, his knuckles whiten around the stem of his goblet, “I don’t drink for the pleasure of it.” Turning slightly, Dean’s shoulder cuts the prince from view and he spends the rest of the dinner speaking solely to Sam.

 

 

+++

 

 

Thick clouds move over the pregnant moon, hiding it beneath a thick blanket of shadow. The fires from the banquet hall and the torches in their iron brackets are the only source of light. The wind howls through the stoned courtyard, making some of the flames splutter feebly and go out.

 

Dean wraps his uninjured arm around his chest, shivering and wriggling the toes in his shoes to try and regain some feeling.

 

Sam is wrapped in a long brown coat, with fur trimmings around the collar and cuffs that possesses a golden clasp that fastens at his throat. “Dean, stay by the fires, I’ll go and get the horses okay?”

 

Dean nods and stands by a large fire burning by the limestone steps leading back into the keep.

Unfolding his one arm Dean holds it above the fire, clenching and unclenching his hand. The doors to the keep open, but he doesn’t bother turning to see who it is.

 

“Dean?”

 

That gravelly voice is unmistakable, but all the same Dean feigns deafness and steps closer to the brazier.

 

“I spoke only the truth, I meant no harm. Every man has flaws.”

 

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Dean wipes a hand over his brow, “Yes my prince?” Frowning at the title Castiel huffs out a sigh and reaches under his cloak. From under it emerges the glimmer of gold and when he holds it aloft in his pale palm Dean’s brows draw together. The golden dove sits there, reflecting the orange blaze crackling behind Dean.

 

Dean looks at it, then to Castiel, lips twisted into a snarl, “And you want me to do what with that?” Narrowing his eyes Castiel pushes the dove into Dean’s chest, hard enough to cause a twinge of pain as the wing presses into a fresh bruise painting Dean’s chest.

 

“You may have thought I participated in the tourney for revenge or to make a fool of you but I didn’t. If you felt that those were my motivations I’m sorry. You have so much potential…to waste it at the bottom of a tankard is just-“ Cutting himself short Castiel lets out another weary burst of air, “I know your county needs all the help it can get.”

 

Dean steps away, the iron of the brazier burning at the back of his leg as it presses into his flesh, just hot enough to scald, but the further away he is from the dove, _from Castiel_ , the better.  “I don’t need your help. I’ll find a way to save my father’s county without your pity.”

 

“I know your father is dying, not unlike my own. The coming days will be dark, please, I will command you to take the dove if I have to. You know I don’t need it.”

 

Gravel crunches in the courtyard. Dean’s hand slowly goes for the knife at his belt. Castiel tilts his head, pale lips pinched with frustration. “Will you take it?”

 

A shadow moves by the wall, using the sound of Castiel’s voice as cover. Dean’s knife hisses as he draws it and with a vicious and short jerk, he sends it flying over Castiel’s shoulder, barely noticing his widened blue eyes. There’s a cry of pain, as the knife hits its target. The figure rushes towards Castiel, unsheathing a stiletto, a long knife, from under his black robes. Dean reaches for Castiel, hand latching onto his shoulder and throwing him to the side. The assassin pivots, turning towards the prince who is reaching for his own knife. Striking out, Dean snatches the back of the assassin’s hood, breaking his momentum and putting his full weight onto Dean, with his back against the knight’s chest.

 

The knife flips around in the man’s dexterous grip and too late Dean realizes this, feeling the wickedly sharp point drive into his thigh, the warmth of his blood washing his skin. Without giving the man time to think he twists him around so the heat of the fire is on the stranger’s face. The battle fever has Dean possessed and so without thought he digs his fingers into the man’s scalp and drives him face first into the burning coals.

 

The man screams and howls as the flames lick at his skin, the acrid smell of burning hair and the slightly sweeter smell of flesh cooking wafts from the grey smoke. The flames are licking at Dean’s hand, but he refuses to loosen his grip as the man struggles and writhes under him.

 

Dean feels a hand on his shoulder. Kicking out he drives his heel into the next enemy’s shin, and tugs his injured arm out of his sling so as to drive his elbow into the man’s diaphragm. Whipping around Dean is ready to choke the life out of his assailant but is stopped as he sees Castiel sprawled on the gravel, panting and shaking with adrenaline. Castiel’s dagger is pressed against the artery on his uninjured thigh, ready to severe it.

 

Breathing in a deep, cool breath Dean raises his hands one blackened and bleeding and licks the ash from his lips, “Sorry Cas,” he gasps out, forgetting for the moment his manners.

 

Dean offers a hand and Castiel takes it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. For a moment Castiel stares at Dean, the toes of his boots brushing Dean’s own. Dean’s throat works to swallow his anxiety at the lack of personal space. After a few moments Castiel rips his sapphire gaze away and walks past Dean to look into the assassin’s burnt face. His skin has been transformed into patches of angry red and flaking black burns. His nose is gone completely, leaving two shining almond shaped holes in the middle of his face and his lips have melted, leaving him with a permanent, ghastly smile. The assassin emits a piteous moan as he curls up into himself, shudders wracking his body as he writhes next to the brazier.

 

Kneeling down beside the man Castiel reaches for the silver necklace resting on his breast. “The symbol of the Morning Star,” he murmurs as he breaks the chain with a snap.

 

Looking over his shoulder Dean stares at the silver disc, where six sharp points flare out from a circle of amber. “Looks like the war isn’t over after all.”

 

Wordlessly Castiel rips a strip from his cloak and winds the silky fabric around Dean’s thigh, pulling it tight, before tying a knot on the side. Dean looks up at the sky, willing the heat falling to his gut to go away. But with Castiel kneeling in front of him, fingers caressing his thighs that send delicious shivers rippling down his spine, he’s hard to ignore.

 

“Dean!” Sam cries, dropping the reins of their horses, emerging from the stable block, making Castiel stand aside, giving him space.

 

“Are you alright?” Sam inquires, hazel eyes wide with worry. On impulse Sam reaches out and gently tucks Dean’s arm back into his sling.

 

Dean pushes Sam away, embarrassment colouring his cheeks, “I’m fine, but we should get Cas--I mean the prince out of here. The assassin could have allies nearby.”

 

At that Sam looks down at the moaning man, “I’ll bring him, he might have some information.”

 

Nodding, Dean limps over to Stanford, Sam’s colossal chestnut gelding, and to Impala who noses at him. Gently Dean strokes her velvety snout and coos to her, calming her after the screams. ~~~~

Castiel appears, quiet and composed, “I’ll help you onto your horse.”

 

Dean scoffs and grabs the horn of his saddle, “I’m fine, thanks.”

 

Despite his answer Castiel grabs Dean’s boot as he pulls himself onto Impala’s back, giving him extra leverage. Pressing a hand to his thigh to staunch the blood Dean manages not to gag at the scent that still soaks the air with its copper scent.

 

“I’ll get my horse,” Castiel murmurs, turning towards the stables. Reaching down Dean catches Castiel’s sleeve to stop his retreat, “No, stay here. It’s not safe.” There’s a hint of a smile on Castiel’s lips before he catches himself and wipes it away with a brush of his fingers.

 

“Sam!” Dean calls, “Get the prince his horse, the big dapple white one.”

 

Sam nods as he effortlessly throws the injured assassin over his shoulder and carries him over to Stanford. With no thought to the man, Sam drops him on Stanford’s rump behind the saddle, making the horse jump slightly at the sudden weight. Taking the knife from his belt Sam walks back to the stables, Dean watching until the darkness swallows his brother.

 

With little else to do Dean turns to watch Castiel, whose long delicate fingers are stroking Impala’s neck under her long onyx mane.

 

“You don’t seem terribly concerned that someone just tried to murder you.” Dean says as he nonchalantly fiddles with a loose thread on the saddle. The smile that Castiel sends him is cool and hollow, totally at odds with the clear azure hued eyes that reflect the stars of the night sky. “How can I let something that happens nearly annually concern me? What kind of ruler would that make me?”

 

Dean leans over and condescendingly rubs his fingers through Castiel’s hair, not thinking for a moment about how improper it was, “It’s okay to be scared. I’m scared all the time.”

 

Castiel’s smile falls away, the lines around his eyes softening, “You weren’t scared when you fought off the assassin? When you went to war?” The side of Dean’s lips quirk with a sad smile, “It’s the brave ones that die first.”

 

The clatter of hooves breaks the strange atmosphere, Dean’s hand jerks away as though burned. Sam frowns and stops, noting the strange behaviour between the two men, but he shrugs it off and passes Blade’s reins to Castiel. In under a minute both Sam and Castiel are mounted and are leading their horses onto the main road that back to Salvation Castle.

 

“Shouldn’t we have gotten some guards to escort us?” Sam asks as he stares straight down the dark dirt road. Dean shakes his head, “The quicker we get there the better. Besides, we don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves.”

 

The road is abandoned, the air cool catching their lips. Slumping in his saddle Dean presses his palm against the wound in his thigh, fingers curling into the torn fabric. Sam shoots him a worried look but when Dean raises his head he merely smiles and drags his hand away, resting it on the bridge of the saddle, leaving a smudge on the leather. Castiel watches the interaction, head tilting to the side, forgetting for that moment the danger that had besotted him.

 

As the last leg of their journey is upon them Dean kicks Impala, sending her into a brisk canter Stanford and Blade follow suit; brown, white and black racing down the road, only slowing when the dirt turns to cobblestones.

 

The guard standing under the portcullis straightens his pike as he notices Castiel among the party and visibly startles when he spies the prone body of the assassin, mail tinkling as he steps forward, “What’s this?”

 

Sighing Castiel pulls Blade to a halt, “He’s a prisoner, he attacked me but don’t-”

 

Without waiting for further orders the guard leaned back, eyes fixing on the guard at the top of the battlements, “Report to the castle that there has been an attempt on the prince’s life and there is a prisoner in tow!” The other guard pauses, lifting his visor to reveal his widened eyes, the whites shining in the torch light, before the clank of his armour heralded his departure.

 

Head hanging Castiel taps Blade’s side and has him walk to the castle at a sedate pace. When they arrive at the main entrance a small group has already gathered to wait for them.

 

Even with the faint light Dean could look up at the towering spires of the royal castle, their tops so lofty that he couldn’t see where they ended. The wooden double doors were made of thick oak, with carvings of ravens flying from the battlefield carved into it, portraying the many victories the royal family had achieved with skulls and disemboweled bodies. Tall elegant windows glowed with the burning fires within and the smooth stones of the building spoke of excess and a bottomless purse.

 

Dean’s assessment of the castle was torn away as a tall man with thick black hair stepped forward, “My Prince are you alright?”

 

Dismounting, Castiel absently passed the reins to a waiting stable boy who quickly took the beast away. “I’m fine Michael, Sir Dean was there to protect me and escort me home. I am uninjured.”

 

Michael’s grey eyes flicked to Dean and a cool unfriendly smirk molded itself upon his lips, “Thank you, Sir Dean. I’m sure no one would oppose you resting here for the night and being on your way tomorrow.”

 

“I would oppose that,” announced a weary, cracking voice, wheezed from rattling lungs. A thin man appeared at the front doors, hand resting on the forearm of a young woman with fiery red hair. A golden crown rested on the old man’s head, inset with a multitude of precious gems, it seemed strangely out of place on his thinning hair.

 

Michael spun around and immediately fell to one knee, “My king, you should be resting.”

 

“I agree Michael, so I will make this quick. Thank you Anna.” The servant nodded her assent and gently took her arm away, hovering like an anxious bird near to her king, lest he fall.

 

“The nobles of Winchester have always been the finest warriors. We rely on your men when war comes, and so it seems that war is coming again.” A hacking cough rattled the king, bending his wizened frame over.  “These assassins are quite obviously becoming more brazen in their attempts, we need to be more prepared.”

 

Castiel took a step towards his father but backed away at the steely look that fell upon him, “Sir Dean, by my authority as king I order you to be the personal bodyguard to my son, Prince Castiel, until peace is with us again.”

 

Dean’s mouth opened, lips parting with a barely audible pop as he turned to look askance of his brother, who raised his upturned hands at his own helplessness.

 

With that decree the king indicated for Anna’s help, who gracefully took the king’s corpselike hand in hers and guided him back into the castle.

 

Rolling his shoulders, Michael smoothed the front of his violet doublet, voice a wavering tenor as he faced Dean, “Well Sir Dean, if you would follow me I will find you quarters and tell you your duties.”

 

“No,” Castiel cut in, forehead creased with lines, “Your services are not required, you may all go.”

 

The small group shuffled, as though unsure what to do, before Michael huffed, pushed back his thick black hair and stormed back into the castle. The rest of the party following on his curtails like sheep.

 

Gingerly, Dean dismounted from Impala, careful not to pull the weeping gash on his leg. Sam clambered down from Stanford’s back and steadied Dean on his feet.

 

“Stop mothering me would you?” Dean groused irritably, shoving Sam away.

 

Tucking his hands into his pockets Sam shrugged, “I’ll send a healer to you in the morning to stitch up your leg and take a look at your arm. If you excuse me Prince, I’ll leave for my quarters.”

 

With a small bow, Sam disappeared into the castle interior, leaving Castiel and Dean alone, except for the silent presence of the guards standing at the doors. Without a word Castiel walked into the castle, followed at a slightly slower pace by Dean. The journey to his chambers seemed to take far longer than usual. Dean soaked in the castle interior with awe, the delicately crafted iron candelabras in the walls, the ravens that spotted the floors in polished white and black marble and the thick tapestries that clung to the walls, ending the whole atmosphere a sense of opulence. It seemed a strange daydream to have Dean following him, making him hyperaware of Dean’s every move next to him. The thought sent a flush of heat through Castiel, leaving him with a thin veneer of sweat. The man he had been thinking about all these years was going to be stuck to him for what could be years. Castiel’s heart palpitated in his chest, his breath shivered in his throat as he inhaled.

 

Swallowing roughly, Castiel climbed a small set of stone stairs that led to his private chambers. At the top of the stairs were two doors and a sleepy guard. Indicating the door furthest away Castiel spoke to Dean, “That will be your room. It should have everything you need.”

 

Dean’s normally golden complexion was waxen, whether it was from blood loss or the shock of his new duties, Castiel couldn’t guess but it burdened him with guilt all the same. “I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience for you.”

 

Dean looked up from under his thick lashes. His mouth opened slightly, then closed, as if thinking better than to speak.

 

Still with a limp to his step Dean headed to his door but was stopped when Castiel laid a hand on his shoulder. Dean turned his head slightly, looking down on the fingers curling into his shirt with detachment.

 

Clearing his throat Castiel quickly withdrew his fingers as an idea brewed in his mind, “As recompense, I will teach you how to improve your jousting. You have the strength, horsemanship and bravery-“

 

Dean scoffed at the last word, but turned around fully to hear Castiel out. Burying his annoyance Castiel wiped a hand over his mouth, smothering the scowl, “But you lack the aim and finesse to score the higher points.”

 

Dean’s brows furrowed as he growled out, “I don’t need to learn how to joust properly. It’s just a hobby.”

 

Folding his arms over his chest Castiel did nothing to conceal the glare he sent at Dean, “Shall we come to a compromise then? I’ll only train you until the Royal Joust, which is in just a few days…and if you win, you’ll have more than enough gold to help your county. What say you?”

 

Rubbing the back of his neck Dean mulled the idea over, “Do you really think you’re better at jousting than me?”

 

Castiel shook his head, “No, but I have been trained by the best in the country.”

 

Smirking Dean rocked back on his heels, as though unbearably pleased with himself.

 

“You have far greater potential than me, but I do have a few things I can teach you. Fair enough?” Castiel added with a huff and a flutter of his lashes.

 

Humming, Dean nodded and held out a hand, “Fair enough.”

 

Castiel took his hand and shook it, folding his hand tight around Dean’s. Dean’s fingers were rough with calluses but his grip was strong, fastening around his smaller hand with a tender pressure. “See you in the morning Dean” Castiel whispered, feeling a grin upon his lips.

 

“What are you grinning about?” Dean muttered, “It’s a fair trade, I keep you safe and you teach me your _tricks_ ,” he says with a playful smirk.

 

With that Dean slips his hand free of Castiel’s and retreats into his room. For a moment Castiel stood in the hallway, simply staring down at his hand. The boy he had met in the gardens all those years ago was still there after all.

 

 

+++

 

 

A slant of sunlight hit Castiel’s face, a weak yellow ray peaking through the heavy curtains of his bedchamber.

 

Rubbing a hand over his face he rolled over onto his back, looking up at the ivory fabric draped over his four-poster bed. Next door was Sir Dean of Winchester, a figure from his childhood that had persistently remained in his memories.

 

Groaning, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his feather mattress, so high that his feet dangled inches from the floor. Pushing himself off he shivered as his warm feet were pressed against the stone floor.

 

The fire had gone out, a few orange embers shone feebly amidst the black ash, consequently leaving a chill in the air. Walking to the adjoining bathroom he sighed in contentment at the wooden tub already full of steaming water. Quickly divesting himself of his nightclothes Castiel stepped over the lip of the bath and sunk into the scented waters. Rose petals floated on the surface, pinks and whites bobbing all around him. Taking a deep breath of the steam Castiel hummed with pleasure at the warm aromatic smell of cloves that had been infused in the bathwater.

 

Nearing the end of his bath, Inias appeared holding soft towels. Knowing that the prince preferred privacy over the luxury of attendants, he left them folded at the side.

 

“Thank you”, Castiel murmured as he reached for them.

 

Inias’ lips gave a rare quirk before he left the room. Castiel stepped out the bath and quickly dried himself with the towels, feeling the fine hairs on his arms rise as his skin met the air. On the far side of the bathing room, on a mahogany chest, his clothes for the day had already been set out, a sky blue doublet and grey trousers. Pulling them on Castiel ran an ox bone comb through his hair, noting the absence of the dark circles under his eyes in the gold-framed mirror.

 

Finally dressed Castiel exits his room. With a heavy weight on his chest he strides past the guards stationed at his door, descending his private stairs and walking through the dank corridors. Thick wooden doors set with iron brackets stand before him. Slowly Castiel places his hand on the handle and with a repressed sigh, opens the door.

 

He strides into the room, remembering his lessons; spine straight, shoulders back, chin lifted as he passed the occupants ringing the table and took his seat at the head of the table. The room was dark and unwelcoming with weapons and maps hanging like trophies from the walls. Several men dotted the edges of the table, with Michael sitting at Castiel’s right.

 

Michael cleared his throat and leaned forward, elbows resting on the hardwood; “The pendant the assassin wore confirms him as an agent of the Morning Star, whom, as well all know, is our recently conquered enemy. Our own spies foretell of no troop movements in the Morning Star’s land, Daitory in the East. From this we can assume nothing, only that the Morning Star took a chance.”

 

A blonde man, richly dressed in a dark gold doublet with fur collars scoffed as he looked up from picking his nails. “Don’t be a fool Michael, the Morning Star does not take chances. This will be the first attempt of many. It is obvious that our enemy is not content to lick his wounds and honour the peace treaty.”

 

Michael quirked a dark brow, “So what would you suggest Lord Balthazar?”

 

Balthazar shrugged nonchalantly and resumed scratching at his cuticles, “We wait, we tighten security around the castle and as always we remain suspicious and vigilant.” Tilting his chin up Balthazar’s bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief, “Unless you have something better to suggest Michael, though I expect you won’t be forthcoming.”

 

Exhaling heavily through his nostrils Michael stood from his chair, snatching a map from the table, “Typical, no solid plan, just some vague declaration. You’re a waste of space on this council Balthazar” the man snapped, eyes steely. With that Michael marched out of the room, flinging open the double doors.

 

“Thank you Lord Balthazar, I will make sure we heighten the castle security.” Castiel announces with a gentile smile, before also making his leave of the room. The Lords watched him, he was all too aware of his haste to leave. Normally he would be here for hours not minutes. Castiel exhaled through his flared nostrils, one of the perks of being royalty though was that no one could tell him what to do, not without the threat of exile.

 

Castiel’s steps back towards his chambers were far fleeter than when he left them. He did not give himself time to think over why that was; he merely felt a strange buoyancy to his step and a sweet clench to his chest. The door to his chamber was still open and glancing inside he noticed that the bed had been made and the smell of lavender laced the air.

 

Dean’s door however was still closed. Glancing over at the guard stationed outside the room he purses his lips, then finally decides to ask, “Is Sir Dean still in his room?”

 

The guard nods and opens his mouth, ready to speak, but before he can Castiel walks over to Dean’s chamber door and opens it.

 

Castiel stands in shock as he looks into the room.

Golden skin is laid bare, devoid of clothing, revealing trails of freckles that dust his shoulders and chest. The low morning sun sets shadows on Dean’s flesh, outlining the curves of his muscles and the sharp jut of his hipbones and the lines of his broad shoulders and trim waist.  His legs are spread out on his bed, a simple pair of braies, covering his groin. A man in plain grey robes is at his side, with a needle and thread in hand. It is only then that Castiel notices the first few stitches that have been sewn into the angry red gash on Dean’s upper thigh.

 

The healer is visibly confused, torn between bowing to his prince or continuing with his work. A blush bursts onto Castiel’s cheeks. Dean grins and leans back into the fluffy cushions he’s propped on, spreading his legs slightly. “You’re not embarrassed are you?”

 

“Of course not” Castiel stammers, internally wincing at his weak tone, “I’ll wait outside.”

 

The door slams behind Castiel as he leaves. Numbly, he crosses over to the window at the end of the corridor, dizzy with what he just stared at for far too long. He stares out of the glass, watching birds flick from tree to tree without really watching them. His mind is whirling as he berates himself for acting like some young maiden and he’s trying his best to erase Dean’s naked body from his mind, but the traitorous part of his mind plays the memory over and over, storing it deep within himself.

 

The door opens as the old healer leaves and only moments later Dean is fully dressed in a pale blue shirt and thick canvas like trousers. Standing next to Castiel they look out over the rolling green hills beyond the castle walls. “So, are we going to have breakfast or..?”

 

Castiel shakes himself out of his reverie and turns to walk down the narrow stone corridor, “No, Inias is brining us out some refreshments when we get down to the stables. I didn’t think there would be a problem eating on the move.”

 

Dean raises his hands defensively, “No problems here Prince.” Stopping midstride, Castiel pivots on his heel and jabs a finger into Dean’s chest, startling the knight, “You call me Castiel and I’ll call you Dean, deal?”

 

Heart hammering in his chest Castiel awaits his answer. Stepping around him, Dean makes his was down the stairs, closely followed by Castiel, “That’s fine, _Cas_.”

Castiel paused, brows furrowing at the nickname but with a deep groan he lets the name slide. Behind Dean’s back he smiles.

 

Walking to the practice field took a little under fifteen minutes. The area was a large grassed area, completely flat with a cluster of trees at the side providing shade. As Dean got closer to the copse he noticed a small wooden bench beneath the tree.

 

Following his gaze, Castiel pointed to a table, “There are some fresh buns, fruits, and cured meats if you want to start with breakfast.”

 

Closing the gap between himself and the table he snatched a red apple from the silver platter, where Castiel raised a brow, “I see the healer also helped your arm, are you sure it does not need a sling?”

 

Dean stares at the bench, green eyes alighting upon the trees standing around it.

 

“Is something the matter?”

 

Shaking his head Dean takes a warm bun from the plate and tears off a piece, relishing the fresh taste, “No, it just reminded me of home.” Glancing over his shoulder Castiel’s eyes widen as he notices the similarity of the bench and the old oak trees yawning above them, “It is like your garden isn’t it?”

 

Dean finishes off the last of the bun, dusting the flour off his hands on the back of his brown trousers, “You remember it?”

 

Castiel says nothing and deigns instead to gesture to Impala who has been brought, fully saddled to the field, “Let’s get started.”

 

Dean exhales melodramatically then walks over to Impala, throwing his leg over her back and settling into the familiar leather saddle in one graceful movement.

 

Pointing down the field Castiel singles out a mannequin whose arm extends out into a large shield, much dented and with flaking paint. “That’s the quintain you’ll be practicing with.”

 

Dean slouches over in his saddle, resting his forearms on the bridge, “You mean that huge, hard to miss, insulting scarecrow over there?”

 

“Yes, that’s the one.” Castiel answers smugly.

 

Sitting up in his saddle Dean merely glares and takes the crude practice lance from Inias who demurely offers it up. Dean tests his injured arm, hefting the lance with it and angling it up and down. Dean lets out a sigh he didn’t realise he was holding as the actions prove relatively painless.

 

Kicking his heels into her side, Impala races down the field toward the target. The beat of her hooves is a comforting and familiar rhythm as she falls into a steady canter. In the final moment Dean lowers his chin, and strikes the shield, making the dummy spin wildly on its pole. Tugging on his reins Dean rounds Impala, flashing his white teeth in a grin, “That was a perfect strike.”

 

Castiel lets out a sound from deep in his chest, “I noticed this about your form before. Why do you lower your chin to hit the target? It leaves your eyes exposed when you’re wearing your helm. Do you want to blind yourself?” he chastises, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

 

“That’s because I like to see what I’m hitting. Bodily risks are one of the perks.”

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose Castiel shakes his head slightly, “No game is worth losing your eyesight. Raise your chin.”

 

The leather reins squeak in Dean’s grip as he tries to channel his building anger, “I’m not scared of getting hurt if it means I get to look my opponent in the eye.”

 

“This isn’t war. There is a difference between recklessness and bravery.” Castiel bites out furiously, earning a look of surprise from Inias standing nearby.

 

Dean dismounts so quickly that one of the silver stirrups clang against the buckle on the girth. “I’m a knight and I earned that title for a reason.”

 

Castiel stays silent as he watches Dean stalk away, the quintain still slowly rotating from the powerful strike.

 

 

+++

 

 

Dean sat back in the hard wooden chair, staring absently out of the window. A magpie sat on the windowsill, fixing its beady black eye on Dean. Briefly Dean entertained the idea of fetching it some bread. With a flutter of wings it flew off, iridescent feathers flashing as it swooped into the sky. Bringing his cup to his lips Dean swallowed a mouthful of the lukewarm water, tasting within it a musky staleness.

 

The chair on the other side of the small table scraped as it was drawn back against the stone floor. Looking at the man from the corner of his eye, Dean took another sip of his water, swilling it around his mouth.

 

“I get the uncanny impression that you don’t like me.” Dean swept his gaze over the decadent clothes of the noble, silks and velvets dyed in rich creams and reds. “Your name’s Michael right?”

 

Michael’s eyes flashed with annoyance, before they softened slightly. Dean turned his attention back to the view, “You’re a good actor. I almost missed that.” An appreciative whistle left Michael as he slouched in his chair, as

though it were the finest throne, “You see right through to a person don’t you? That’s a useful skill.”

 

A thud on the table had Dean turning to face a tall green bottle. Reaching over Michael dragged Dean’s cup from his fingers and splashed the last few mouthfuls of water onto the floor. Next he uncorked the wine bottle with the lustrous knife from his belt with a satisfying pop. The smell of woods and spices emanated from the rich ruby red wine as it gurgled into the cup, filling it to the brim.

 

Dean watched as his fingers groped for the stem of the glass, brining the wine closer to him as though he were a puppet on invisible strings. Its heady scent fills his nostrils and wets his tongue with anticipation. Running his tongue over his dry lips Dean smirks coolly, “I’m surprised you’re not angry with me for leaving the prince’s side. But here you are, offering me a drink instead.”

 

Plucking his cup off the table Michael brings it to his lips and samples a small sip of the liquid, “I do have my ulterior motives, I admit.” His eyes, a steely grey tempered with the hint of green, smile over the lip of the cup, “I hear you were quite useful both on and off the battlefield Sir Dean…and that you were particularly adept at interrogations.” Michael paused, gaze calculating as he took in the slight twitch that plucked Dean’s shoulder to a rigid set, “We have our own little interrogation going on at the moment with the assassin you caught for us yesterday. He is proving quite…uncooperative.”

 

Something of a growl caught Dean’s throat as he bit out his next words, “Cut to the chase.” Instead Michael took his time, deigning to drink another mouthful before answering, “I was wondering if you could lend us your skills, you would be paid handsomely of course.”

 

Pushing his cup away Dean stood, chair legs squeaking against the tiles, “No thanks.”

 

With that said Dean turned on his heel and walked out of the room, feeling the heavy weight of Michael watching his every movement as he left.

 

Dean’s heart thundered in his breast, pattering madly against his rib cage as memories of a blade, familiar in his hand cut through thin, surprisingly fragile human flesh. The memories of their wretched screams, physically ripped form blood and sweat soaked throats, punctuated his footfalls.

 

“Dean?”

 

His name pulled him out of his memories as he glanced up into his brother’s hazel eyes, “What are you doing here?” Sam asked closing the thick leather bound book he had been reading. “Where’s the prince?”

 

A nervous smile crossed Dean’s lips as he tucked his hands into his pockets.

 

“Dean,” Sam bit out, “Go”, punctuating the word with a jab of his index finger.

Brow corrugating, Dean hunched his shoulders, mumbling something under his breath about girly overgrown little brothers, to which Sam merely rolled his eyes, sighed in exasperation and walked away.

 

As Dean made his way outside a cool breeze flushed his cheeks. From where he stood on the cobblestones he could see Impala in the distance, head down and tail flicking lazily in the afternoon sun. Dean bit down on the inside of his lip, worrying the skin with his canine. He would apologize; take the Prince’s bitching like a man and then they could get on with it. Marching onto the grassed field he readied himself for a verbal beating.

 

Pausing, Dean stared, flashes of an old memory interposing itself over his vision.

 

Castiel was on his back, lying on the bench, seeped in dappled sunlight. One arm was reaching upwards, fingers stretching for the oak leaves and acorns suspended above him. Castiel’s head lolled to the side and he let his arm fall down next to him on the bench, “You’re back.”

 

Dean’s hands curled into fists at his sides, fingernails leaving the impressions of crescent moons in his palms. “Of course, I’m your babysitter, remember?” Instead of being insulted a fond smile shaped Castiel’s mouth, “Yes, that’s true.”

 

Sitting up Castiel ran a hand through his hair, “If you’re done sulking, shall we get back to practicing?”

 

 Dean bristles as the atmosphere returns to its usual antagonism, “Fine, let’s get this over with.”

 

Castiel pushes himself up, watching as Dean slipped his booted foot into Impala’s stirrup. Suppressing a sigh he slid off the bench and walked into the harsh sunshine. It was clear that Dean hadn’t forgiven his trespass from all those years before.

 

 

+++

 

 

_It was years ‘till they saw each other again, but the anxiety fluttering in Castiel’s belly betrayed his excitement. The sky was dark, a cobalt tempered with broody grey clouds. The Winchester Castle was unchanged, although a little more ivy scaled the stonewalls and a hint of orange rust coloured the edges of the portcullis that was raised for them. Castiel pulled at his clothes, having found the most inconspicuous items he could: simple wool and cotton in dull neutral colours. His father hadn’t cared, his mind was occupied with the war that was quickly approaching their borders, soon to spill and overflow in a congealed torrent of bloody battles._

_Unlike Castiel’s previous visit to the castle no riders came to meet them; instead only Sir John Winchester himself came to the doors to meet the small group of Castiel, King Carver and a few hand picked guards. Dismounting Castiel held back his smile, turning his lips into a skewed frown as he led his horse to the stables at the side of the courtyard. The bitter smell of wet straw met him as he tied the reins to a post inside. A hand patted his shoulder, making him the young man jump as he turned around._

_Dean had hardly changed. He was taller now of course, but his skin held the same sun kissed luminescence, freckles delicately smattering his skin. His smile sent a jolt of pleasure through Castiel, “Edward right?” Dean inquires before adding, “It’s been a few years.”_

_Running a hand through his hair Castiel nodded, his words spilling from his lips in a hurried manner, “Yes it has…you remember me then?”_

_Rolling his shoulders Dean clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “I have a pretty good memory you know, thanks for the token of confidence.” His smirk was sly, playful. ~~~~_

_Castiel huffed out a sigh then followed Dean out of the stables and around the side of the castle, memorizing the confident straight set of Dean’s shoulders, the swagger of his hips and the bowed curve of his legs._

_The garden opened up as they rounded the corner of the castle wall and the sight made Castiel pause. Where before there were rose beds and the fat heads of tulips there was now muddied ruts, pools of stagnant water and battered practice dummies._

_“What happened?” He stammered out, bright blues raking over the destruction._

_Glancing over his shoulder Dean just raised his hands helplessly, “My father decided that he didn’t want to keep the flowers anymore, it reminded him too much of mother.”_

_Castiel’s gaze fell upon the oak tree and beneath it still sat the wooden bench from years before. Expelling a heavy breath he gestured towards the seat, “It’s good to see your favourite place survived the destruction.”_

_Crossing his arms over his chest Dean rocked back on his heels, making the mud squelch beneath his boots, “It was a hard won battle but worth it. Anyway, tell me about yourself Edward.”_

_Castiel’s mouth became tainted with bile, the sour taste cloying on his tongue, “There really isn’t much to tell.” Rubbing his hands over his eyes Castiel added, “I’d rather not talk about it.”_

_Dean’s mouth opened for a moment then snapped shut. “That’s fine.” Dean took a step but paused, and then spun around to face Castiel, “It’s okay, because I’ll just talk so much you’ll have no choice but to talk about yourself, just to take a break from my voice.”_

_Jade eyes bright, Dean slung his arm over Castiel’s shoulder, palm fitting over the curve of his shoulder. Dean chattered on, talking about the new black horse he was to be given, his training but it was all just a buzz in Castiel’s ears; the pressure of his arm resting on him snatched away his attention. He held no illusion, it was nothing but a companionable gesture, but that reasoning did little to quell the joy ballooning in Castiel’s chest._

_They soon found themselves under the oak tree, where they sat next together on the bench. Dean’s mouth ran with more stories, paying particular attention to his brother, “He’s so smart, can’t get his nose out of a book-” Stopping mid sentence, Dean’s fingers curled against his thighs, “But he’s not a weakling, he’s deadly with a practice sword and dad--I mean Sir John, he’s so proud, I see it.” There was just the hint of jealousy to Dean’s tone, riding on the undercurrents of his pride._

_Inching marginally closer on the bench Castiel crowds into Dean’s personal space, making the young man swallow audibly, captured by his intense stare, “I’m sure he’s very proud of you too.”_

_Dean’s eyes widen a little before he exhales in a shivering breath, “I know he is, I do, but I’m not just his son--I’m another one of his soldiers too. I’m fine with that, that’s what I’ve always wanted.” The corner of Dean’s eyes becomes creased with another one of his smiles, “But Sam, he resists that, he doesn’t want to be under his heel and I wish I was that brave.”_

_“Dean you are that brave.”_

_There’s a self-depreciating laugh from the young man, “No I ain’t.”_

_Without thinking, Castiel leans forward, fingers cupping the back of Dean’s warm neck, fingers tight as he pressed Dean’s soft lips against his. Dean went rigid but then relaxed, fingers shaking as he ran them up Castiel’s side, fingernails catching on the stitched dark blue panels._

_“Dean!”_

_As though burned Dean drew away, heart hammering in his chest as that deep authoritative tone had adrenaline spiking into his blood. His father stood in the muddy quagmire, half dressed in silver plate armour, breast shining with the golden griffons of their house._

_Dean wiped his lips and pushed Castiel away, as John marched over to him, hand snapping out like a snake to yank Dean off the bench. Standing to face the taller man Castiel’s tongue was paralyzed in his suddenly dry mouth._

_“That is sodomy Dean!” John bit in a measured hiss, “And with the Prince no less!”_

_Dean’s fingers stopped their scrabble against the iron like grip on his arm and turned, face deathly pale, to Castiel._

_Shaking his head John pulled Dean away, whose feet slipped in the mud, whole body numb. Castiel stood there, under the leaves of the oak tree as the rain began to drum against the bark._

 

 

+++

 

 

It was the second night in a row that Dean attended a feast and not only that; he was seated next to Castiel. Fate was a capricious whore. He picks at his food in a sullen silence, muscles fatigued from the days’ worth of practice.

 

Castiel glanced at him from the corner of his eye, the sides of his lips quirking just so, enough for Dean to catch the smirk before it disappeared.

Straightening his back Dean drummed his fingers against the wooden table, “You find something amusing?”

 

Ignoring Dean, Castiel stood in his seat and raised a hand, signaling for silence.

 

Knowing what was coming Dean painted on a smile, feeling his face twitch with the strain, “You’re really rubbing salt into the wound here.”

 

“We hold this simple celebration to honour Sir Dean of Winchester’s bravery and his new designation.” Castiel’s voice was silken, capturing the attention of even the serving maids, whose silver pitchers lowered slightly as they paused to listen. Plucking his goblet off the table Castiel raised it, the wetted edges glistening under the firelight from the sconces set in the wall, between the richly woven tapestries. “Tonight we drink to him.” Dean’s eyes captured the image of Castiel’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed a mouthful of wine before seating himself again.

 

Soon the lute player began to delicately pull at his strings again, ushering the conversation into its peaceful lull once more. Resting his arm on the table Dean pursed his lips, “You really could have strung that out, could have had me squirming with embarrassment.” He said with just a hint of thankfulness to his tone.

 

A hand clapped down on Dean’s shoulder, fingers squeezing tight, “I agree with the idiot here, you should have done that Cassy.” Whipping around in his seat Dean’s lips parted with a pop before a burst of laughter was punched from his belly, “And what in the seven circles of Hell is this?”

 

Behind him stood Gabriel, replete in gold tunic with red wooden toggles, each crafted into the shape of a pig’s head and with violet coloured stockings that ended with lacy cuffs that puffed over his delicate black boots.

 

Looking down at himself Gabriel peeled back his lips in a grin and snapped his fingers, a mere inch from Dean’s nose, making the knight flinch back. Shaking his head with a melancholy sigh Gabriel sidled up to Castiel’s seat, hands lounging on the curved back, “I had so much hope for this one. But he seems rather dull.”

 

Rocking back on his heels Gabriel let his hands slide off the wood, and seemed about to fall before his gracefully stepped to the side, out of the way of a server. “At least he’s pretty Cassy.” Heat flushed Dean’s cheeks as he half stood, palms pressing down on the tabletop, “You want to say that again, a little closer this time.”

 

Humming Gabriel compressed his bottom lip with the tip of his index finger, “I think not,” with that he sauntered around the corner and down the corridor, a crash of metal echoing dully off the stonewalls.

 

Slowly, Dean turned back around and took a swig of his watered wine, “Tell me that was a jester you can get rid of.”

 

Running a hand over his face Castiel groaned, “Unfortunately that was Lord Gabriel, his family is second only to my own in terms of wealth.”

 

The conversation died away as Castiel returned his attention to the bard singing a tale about a maiden who died at the hands of a jealous lover, suffocating her with his bare hands. The high lilting tune of the song set Dean’s teeth on edge, the annoyance of Gabriel’s foolery added to the pulsating ache in his head. Pinching the bridge of his nose Dean tried to ignore it but decided to give in some minutes later as a large sip of wine did nothing to quell the headache.

 

Pushing his chair back Dean prodded Sam’s shoulder who had been dozing in the seat next to him, “Babysit the prince whilst I get some fresh air?”

 

Sam nodded and sat up straighter in his chair, knuckling the dust from his eyes as he watched Dean push out his chair and stand, leaving the loud music and the hum of conversation in favour of the quiet corridors. An open door to his left led Dean outside where the bite of the late night air immediately bled colour into his cheeks and lessened the drums beating at the inside of his skull.

 

The stars overhead glistened on a pond’s surface, capturing hints of long pondweeds brushing the surface. Dean approached it, green eyes cast onto the water to watch for any fish that might lurk below.

 

Boots echoed against the flagstone path, the sound reaching Dean’s ears as he stood at the pond’s edge. Michael came to a stop next to him, arms coming up to loosely cross themselves over his chest. Mist plumed over his lips as he exhaled into the night. “What are you doing out here Sir Dean, the feast is in your honour.”

 

Dean shrugged lightly as he massaged the side of his temple with two fingers, “I had a headache.” A derisive snort left Michael whose eyes raked over him, “Can’t handle your drink?”

 

Raising his hands placatingly Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “Look,” he began, “I know you have some issue with me being here and I don’t care what it is. I can’t do anything about it, I’m here on the king’s orders and to be frank, I don’t like it either, baby sitting that spoiled little prince.”

 

There’s a flash of glee in Michael’s gaze as he takes a step closer to Dean, “The king is not aware of things that occur in his own castle. Simply leave the prince alone and work for me.”

 

Slowly Michael raised his hand, fingers capturing the point of Dean’s chin. Heart hammering in his chest Dean battered the hand away, lips peeling back in a snarl and then spotted Castiel watching them from the open doorway.

 

Dean watches as Castiel’s shoulders slump, his lips thin into a line and fingers tighten on the goblet of water in his left hand. Turning on his heel he goes back inside, his shadow a flickering phantom sent on the stone walls. Dean starts after him but Michael’s hand wraps itself around his wrist, “Don’t, leave him, it’s for the best.”

 

For the second time Dean shakes him off, skin burning from the contact, “I don’t need your advice.” The urge to smack the smug, knowing little grin that mars Michael’s face is _almost_ irresistible. With a low growl he walks away, pace quick as he follows after Castiel, leaving Michael to look up at the stars, a secret frown sequestered in the night. 

 

The castle corridors are quiet, the sounds of the banquet fading as Dean keeps taking turn after turn, blindly following a route. As he passes a lead lined window he stops and takes a step back. On the ledge is the goblet of water, beads of liquid staining the ledge in darker spots. At a more sedate pace he beings walking again, ears straining to hear for any sound. Eventually he comes to a dead end where the corridor flares out into an open semi circular room. Within there are a few chairs, layered with plump pillows and blankets and a lantern imported from the east that sets its soft red glow down onto its sole occupant. Castiel’s arms are wrapped around his legs as he sits on the window bench, looking out onto the thin dark strip of the lake in the distance.

 

Sighing to announce his presence Dean drags a chair over to the window then swivels it around, planting his legs either side of the curved back and notes the way that Castiel tenses as he approaches. “So, I take it you heard most of that then?”

 

Rolling his shoulders Castiel exhales out of his nostrils, “I’m trying not to take offence at the ‘spoiled little prince’ part of your conversation.”

 

Clapping a hand against his knee Dean grins, “Do you know of any prince that isn’t spoiled?” Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth Castiel coolly assesses him, “We both know that that isn’t what you meant.”

 

Raising a hand Dean sighs and leans his chest against the back of the chair. “I’m really sorry you know.” Dean whispers, hard for him to say.

 

 They sit in silence for a few moments before Castiel speaks again, “So are you still going to baby sit me?” He asks through a wan smile, “If so I expect to see you bright and early tomorrow.”

 

“Sure. Your buddy Michael is a slimy bastard anyway,” Dean mutters brightening slightly, fingers rubbing against the spot on his chin that Michael had touched.

 

Swinging his legs onto the floor Castiel stands and looks down at Dean, “Good.”

 

 

+++

 

 

He wakes with a shiver. Sitting up in bed Dean looks over to the window where the iron latch has come undone making the thin ivory curtains billow with the breeze. Sliding out of bed he peers out onto the grounds and looks up into the sky where dark clouds gestate on the grey horizon. He closes the windows and then begins to dress, pulling on his tan trousers, boots and moss green tunic. Crossing over to the door he pulls on the cuffs of his shirt absentmindedly, chewing the inside of his lip. The air feels tense, different.

 

Opening the door Dean looks to the lone guard stationed outside his door. Dark rings beleaguer the skin around his eyes. “Has something happened?” The soft blue eyes of the guard looks up at him, “Aye, the king passed on in the night. The prince is saying his farewells in the Royal chamber.”

 

His stomach flips into his throat. “Where-?” The guard cuts him off by raising his gauntlet-laden hand, “Down the stairs, first door on the right.”

 

When Dean arrives at the door he hesitates. There’s an unearthly stillness and silence pervading the place, the thin threads that had been keeping the twisted tapestry of the castle politics and life having snapped with the king’s passing. He didn’t let himself think further on it as he opened the door and steps in. Sitting on the edge of the plump white mattress was Castiel, his father’s wizened hand clasped tightly between his own. When his blue eyes look up at him they were wet with unshed tears but there was no softness to the gaze, only hardness. A priest was anointing the king’s head with drops of golden oil, smeared over the pale flesh. “Leave, I wish to speak to Dean.” The priest shot Dean a glare before he swiped the clay jar off the bedside table, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

 

When the door swung closed after the robed priest Dean opened his mouth ready to speak but Castiel cut him off with a shake of his head. Gently he placed his father’s hand against his chest, tucking a silver crucifix underneath. “I don’t need your sympathies, I have been prepared for my father’s death for quite some time. The royal joust in three days time will be conducted in his honor, after which he will be buried.” Dean noticed the bob of Castiel’s Adam apple as he swallowed around the tension at the base of his throat, “Then, a week later I will be crowned monarch of Salvation.”

 

Dean steps over to Castiel, mulling over his next words carefully, “You don’t sound happy about that.”

 

Pushing himself off the bed Castiel ran a shaking hand through his hair, exhaling in a shivery whisper, “Where do I begin? The lives of every man, woman and child are soon to be in my hands. What if I make a mistake? People could die, Dean.” Hurriedly Castiel wipes a hand over his eyes, catching the tears before they could fall, his hand remains loosely clasped over his face, fingers curling slightly as he spoke, “I’m not strong enough.”

 

A warm firm hand lands on his shoulders, fingertips digging in slightly. Castiel feels the other hand gently pulling his hand away, revealing his tear-streaked face. Expressive green eyes gaze unflinchingly at him, fingers tightening marginally on his shoulder and wrist. “You care. Which is why you’ll be a good king. I have faith in you.”

 

Pulling his wrist out of Dean’s grip Castiel glances away to spy the cold dead countenance of his father, bejeweled crown tipping forward slightly on his forehead. “People like you Dean, you have no problem talking to them, being with them. But I’m used to being on my own, hiding behind others and I can’t do that anymore.”

 

Dean’s hand slips off his shoulder, “ _I_ like you.” Castiel’s eyes widen at the admission, causing Dean to flinch away, cheeks reddening, “I mean that in a completely platonic way.”

 

Castiel’s heart clenches in his chest, a fist squeezing hard on the fluttering organ, “Of course,” he utters through a wan smile. Straightening his back Castiel picks up his long sandy brown coat and slips it on, tugging it tight around his lithe frame, “We should leave so the priest can prepare my father’s body. Shall we continue with your training?”

 

The abrupt change in topic takes Dean aback before he stumbles out a response, “I would have thought you would have wanted to…grieve, today?” Nostrils flaring with a cynical snort Castiel crosses to the heavy oaken door, “My father despised weakness, he would not want me to sit around moping like some maiden in a tale.”

 

“As you wish,” Dean says in response, capturing the forced smile that crosses Castiel’s chapped lips as he steps out of the room, brushing past the priest as he walks in with a grumble.

 

The day is dull, clouds threatening rain in the skies above them as Castiel and Dean emerge outside. A wind is whipping up, causing the thin poplar trees to bend like old women under the assault. Dean sends Castiel a questioning look that he chooses to ignore, instead walking towards the wooden stall that Impala is standing in. The mare impatiently paws at the ground, saddle and tack already fitted snugly onto her body. When Castiel opens the door the hinge gives a rusty whine as she walks out, heading over to Dean. A light misty rain begins to fall, making the myriad of paints in the landscape run into each other. Blinking the water from his eyes Dean grabs Impala’s reins, “Are you sure you want to practice today?”

 

Castiel merely nods and deftly does the silver buttons up on his coat.

 

Castiel’s forced smile begins to show its cracks an hour into training, where the grassy training ground has turned into a muddy churned up bog. Yanking on his reins Impala shakes her head, long mane flicking droplets of water as Dean guides her into position again, down the field from the quintain.

 

Raising the end of his lance Dean tucks the end into position, teeth chattering inside his skull as his shirt clings to him, outlining every muscle in the icy downpour. He would have stopped but every time he looks at Castiel the pit at the bottom of his stomach tightens. He’s helpless; the weight on Castiel’s shoulder can’t be abated by kind words or actions. Yet he’s frustrated, angry with himself, though he can’t put a finger on why that is. Grip tightening on his lance he kicks Impala into a gallop, hooves splashing and sliding through the mud. In retaliation Dean lifts his chin, leaving his eyes exposed in the slit of his helm, the only armour he wears to practice. The lance strikes, sending the practice dummy whirling on its stand, whilst the lance itself splinters, a great crack splitting the middle. A cry of agony pierces the rainy day, and Dean drops from the saddle, falling into the mud.

 

“Dean!”

 

Mud splashes his boots as he ran to Dean who was struggling with his helm, the stark red of blood lurid in the monochrome landscape. Skidding onto his knees Castiel reaches out and pulls the helm free, hands immediately going to Dean’s cheeks. Blood pooled over his fingers, hot and sticky, making his stomach turn. The rain sluiced off the edge of Dean’s nose and dripped off the ends of his long black lashes. Heart palpitating in his chest Castiel willed for his words to be strong, authoritative, “Open your eyes.”

 

Dean’s fingers clawed into the cold mud, breath hitching in his throat with the pain, but slowly his eyelids fluttered open, revealing his pair of uninjured green eyes. A sigh of relief ripped itself from Castiel who leaned his forehead against Dean’s, choosing to merely breathe and abate the terror that jostled his bones. “Dean, God, Dean.”

 

Dean sagged against him, letting the weight of his head fall more heavily on Castiel. Blue eyes watched him, soaked in the freckles dotting his tanned skin, “Don’t…don’t raise your chin anymore, okay?”

 

Castiel felt more than saw his nod in acquiescence. Pulling back slightly Castiel saw several splinters protruding from the torn flesh; carefully he ran his fingers along Dean’s cheek, fingertips coming to rest on the first splinter. “Be still,” he murmured as he tugs the first splinter out, earning him a hiss of pain. A thin, long splinter had slipped into the crease of Dean’s eye, skewering the delicate skin with the wood. With every blink more blood was forced from the wound, creating lines of bloody tears. The pale tips of Castiel’s fingers peeked into view in the corner of Dean’s eye, making the knight close his eyes. His skin tingled with pain but each time Castiel touched him the area flared with sensation, sending little pins and needles through him. Another tug and the splinter came free, tearing slightly at the flesh. “Christ” Dean bit out, eyes flaring open to glare at Castiel. But the prince was unaffected as his gaze raked over him, searching for any more bits of wood. Gently he brushed the tip of his finger over a graze on the bridge of Dean’s nose, wiping away the rivulet of blood.

 

“That’s it, I think.”

 

The rain continued its deluge, soaking them both and chiming against Dean’s metal helm. Castiel licked his lips, hands dragging down either side of Dean’s warm throat. The knight sat there, air bottled tight in his chest as he let his prince run his hands down him, fingernails catching on the waterlogged ripples of his shirt. His hands came to a rest on the hard jut of Dean’s hipbones where his fingers wound themselves tight around his flesh. Tilting his head to the side Castiel closed the gap between them, lips hovering over Dean’s. Neither of them moved till Castiel presses his lips flush against Dean’s, a chaste touch in which he tasted the hint of metal from the spilled blood and the crisp taste of the rain. He felt Dean stiffen under his hands, and then exhale against his lips.

 

“Stop it.”

 

Castiel flinched away, eyes widening as his heart palpitated agonisingly. On unsteady feet Dean stood up, stumbling back a step, green eyes unreadable as they shied away from looking at the prince. Dean’s fingers trembled as they latched onto the leather reins, tugging Impala away from the practice field.

 

Castiel watched them through the rain, cold numbed fingers tugging his coat closer, mud ensconcing his legs. The abandoned helmet began to pool with water.

 

 

+++

 

 

The mattress dipped. The cobwebs of sleep were ripped away, adrenaline flooded hot and electrifying in his blood as his fingers groped for the dagger hidden beneath his pillow. “God Dean, what happened to your face?”

 

His fingers relaxed and slipped away from the handle of his dagger as he turned over onto his side to glare blearily at Sam. “Practice accident.” Dean muttered as he sat up, yawning but that was soon turned into a pained yelp as Sam’s fingers prodded the puffy red wounds, flaking off the dark remnants of dried blood. “From the lance?” Sam asked, hazel gaze capturing Dean’s. Battering away Sam’s hand Dean hopped out of bed, planting his hands on the small of his back as he stretched his spine with a satisfying crack, making him grin in the morning sunlight that caught motes of spiraling dust. “This is why you should keep your chin down when you’re jousting.”

 

Castiel’s strained voice and urgent whispers to him in the rain flooded back to Dean, along with the brush of his lips. Face colouring crimson Dean turned away from Sam, fingertips running along his plump lower lip as they sparked with the phantom sensation of the prince’s soft lips. “Stop nagging me.” Turning on his heel Dean snatched up his green shirt, pulling it on over his naked chest, “What do you want anyway?” He grouched, irritation lacing the words.

 

The space between Sam’s brows wrinkled with annoyance, “Lady Jessica has come to court to visit a cousin, and she wanted to watch you practice your jousting with the prince.”

 

Dean grinned, nodding his head as though sharing a private joke with himself, “I thought you wanted to marry her? Making Jess watch my obvious physical prowess will be counterproductive wouldn’t you say?”

 

Sam let out a mocking laugh, tucking a long brown lock of hair behind the shell of his ear, “I’m not worried.”

 

“Well sorry to disappoint you,” Dean began as he kneeled to put on his boots, “But the prince and I won’t be practicing today.”

 

“But the joust is in two days time! You should…” Sam’s words trailed off as he narrowed his eyes, noting the way that Dean angled his body away from him, every muscles in his body a tense line.

 

With a sigh of exasperation Sam planted his hands on his hips, “What did you do?”

 

“I didn’t do anything!” Dean squeaked with indignation, standing suddenly with his arms outstretched, “It’s not my fault.”

 

“Whoever is at fault, the prince is outside with Jess, ready for you to join them.” Tucking the collar of his cloak closer to his neck Sam opened the door and stepped out of Dean’s room, hand resting on the handle as he waited for Dean to pass him. With a shake of his head Dean tucked his hands into his pockets, fingertips finding the soft flesh of his thighs to pinch himself.

 

Clouds hovered overhead when they made it outside, reminders of the heavy rain the day before, yet between the vaporous forms bright rays of sunshine baked the mud into hard brown trails that dotted the otherwise green field.

 

A blonde haired woman sat on the bench beneath the tree, delicate olive dress clinging to her frame and accenting the curve of her thigh and the slope of her chest. Upon seeing them she stood, smile radiant as her fingers nervously played with the silver necklace decorating her throat. “Dean” she breathed out, “It’s lovely to see you after all this time.”

 

Dean inclined his head slightly, “Thank you my lady--Jess,” He corrected when the formality earned him a glare, “Though I still can’t quite fathom why you’d decide to waste your time with my brother.”

 

A sharp prod to his ribs had Dean biting back a yelp as Sam came to stand beside him. Jess and Sam shared a fond beatific smile, eyes lighting up with the presence of one another. Resisting the urge to mock their clichéd affection Dean instead watched Castiel as a hawk elegantly curved away from his gloved wrist, flying close to the ground before arcing back up into the sky, white talons cutting crescent moons against the clouded sky.

 

Noticing his attention Jess stepped out from under the shade of the tree to watch as the falcon’s yellow feet latched onto Castiel’s steady hand, “He’s very good at falconry, is he not?”

 

With the bird on his arm Castiel walked over to them, delicate fingers ruffling through the thick brown feathers at the back of the falcon’s neck. Immediately Dean took a step back, eyeing the inquisitive bird as it turned its round onyx eye upon him. Castiel brought his hand back slightly, “Do you not like him?” Dean’s chest puffed out slightly, lips clicking as they parted to answer. Holding out a hand Sam allowed the falcon to examine his finger, “Dean has never liked birds.” 

 

Gently Sam ran his thumb over the side of the falcon’s neck to which the bird returned the gesture by relaxing the set of its angular wings and leaning into the touch. Yet moments later the bird perked up, wings flaring out making Dean flinch away from it, hand raised slightly as if to protect himself. From across the field a man walked towards them and was soon discovered to be Inias.

 

With a low bow to his prince Inias ignored everyone else, gaze pinned to Castiel, “My Prince, Lord Michael is about to set out on a hunt and was wondering if you would like to accompany him.”

 

Castiel’s brow became lined as he considered it, “I suppose this is a ploy to speak to me about the arrangements of my father’s passing and my coronation…Fine, tell him I shall be there shortly. Thank you Inias.”

 

Humming his acceptance the manservant held out his hand, allowing Castiel to pass the falcon over to him. Turning to Dean, Castiel’s normally penetrative gaze skirted over his countenance, “I will be back shortly to continue with your training.”

 

“I’m coming with you.”

 

Castiel’s head jerked up, mouth agape, “But I thought after yesterday..?”

 

Immediately Dean stiffened, “Let’s forget about that. You didn’t mean it, I know.”

 

From the corner of his vision Dean spotted Sam’s frown deepening, the sides of his lips pulling down. Knowing the signals Dean retreats a step, “Let’s go then.”

 

Mounting Impala and Blade they set themselves a sedate pace as they headed for the forest line to meet Michael. The silence was stifling, the creak of the leather saddles sharp sounds that cut through them. Unable to stand it any longer Dean let out a groan and rubbed the back of his neck, “I don’t care why you decided to…” Dean swallowed, playing with the word ‘kiss’ in his mouth as though it were some profanity, “…whatever you want to call it, but let’s just move on okay?”

 

Castiel’s fingers tighten around the reins, making the leather squeak as he narrows his eyes, “You must underst-“

 

The methodical thud of hoof beats cuts him short as Michael rides out to meet them from the curtain of verdant green trees surrounding the dirt path. “I did not expect you to bring company my prince,” he says through a smile that yanks his lips up in an ungainly way, “Though your company is appreciated as always, Sir Dean.”

 

Leaning back in his saddle Dean merely keeps his mouth closed, molars chewing the sides of his gums.

 

“What are we hunting Michael?” Castiel begins, leading his white horse onto the trail where several of Michael’s wolfhounds happily bound out of the way, little barks and yelps escaping their wiry hides.

 

“There’s rumour of a large boar that has been causing havoc for some of the serfs, I thought it would make good prey.”

 

A mocking bark of laughter escapes Dean, to which Michael half turns in his saddle to fix the knight with a cool stare a reptile might give to its next victim. Swinging his legs forward in his stirrups Dean hisses slightly from between his clenched teeth, “Sorry, it’s just that a big pig that’s been eating some vegetables isn’t exactly what I’d call a challenge.”

 

Swiveling back around in his saddle Michael gives his elegant cream horse a light tap with his heels, urging it onto the path behind Castiel, “Who knows what lurks in the forest, perhaps we’ll find more than we bargain for.”

 

Clicking his tongue, Impala’s ears swivel backwards before she steps down onto the path, entering the shade of the towering trees that hug either side of the trail, “I doubt that”, Dean murmurs, at odds with the shiver he feels trickling down his spine.

 

The hounds lead them, tails wagging as the horses sedately follow them for an hour. The sun is high above them, casting the rich ceiling of green into a golden radiance. The smell of the forest soaks into Dean, who inhales the earthy smell of rotting leaf litter and the peeling bark. Suddenly one of the large grey hounds raises its head and howls, the scent finally discovered. It leaps off the path and into the undergrowth, followed by the three remaining dogs. Leaning back in his saddle Castiel urges Blade to follow, putting the horse into a measured canter to chase after the dogs.

 

The three horses thunder through the forest, leaping over fallen logs and crunching the branches and detritus of the forest under their hooves. Sweat shines hot and sticky on their coats; white foam begins to lather Michael’s horse, his nostrils flaring with the exercise. Impala shoots past, sleek black frame catching up to Castiel’s smaller horse, its angular head an arrow darting through the tree trunks. All of a sudden the dogs stop, all four of them circling something on the ground.

 

Pulling back on his reins Castiel slows Blade down, the horse responding immediately under his touch, Impala tosses her head, black mane flying in an arc before she too stops. The forest is suddenly quiet; the heaving breaths of the horses the only sound that breaks the silence. The unease Dean felt earlier rears its head again, hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Looking behind him Michael is nowhere to be seen.

 

Unsheathing his sword with a metallic hiss Dean holds up a hand for silence from Castiel, who unslings the bow from his back, fingers delicately pulling on the fletch of an arrow to nock it against his bow. Raising the bow Castiel draws back on the string slightly, blue eyes roaming through the forest. The dogs sit around the carcass of the boar, uninterested in the dead game. An arrow whistles by, thudding into a tree. Impala jumps slightly, the thrum racing through Dean.

 

A flash of silver.

 

Adjusting his aim Castiel breathes slowly and deep before drawing the string to his lip and then releases. A scream of pain erupts into the forest allowing him to lower his bow slightly. Castiel looks to Dean, eyes wide and fingers trembling as he grips the curve of his weapon. His heart is thundering in his chest, the bow is heavy in his hands with the life it is sure to take.

 

Nodding, Dean dismounts from Impala, cruciform sword ready at his side. The leaves crunch beneath his boots, the soil becomes softer as he reaches a bank. Stepping off it Dean comes upon a small stream of water, barely eleven inches wide. Blood stains the trickles of water, turning it crimson as the assassin gasps in pain, hand wrapped around the shaft, fingers bloody around the thin wood. Kneeling down next to the man Dean stares into his hazel eyes where tears run freely down his freckled cheeks.

 

Laying his sword over his legs Dean runs his hand into the man’s hair, yanking his head off the forest floor, with his other hand he reaches for the arrow embedded in the man’s belly. “Now,” Dean begins, “I can make your death quick and as painless as possible with my sword, or,” Dean’s fingers roll along the shaft of the arrow twisting it cruelly in the man’s flesh, forcing dark rivulets of blood to burble past the wood and run hot over the man’s side. His screams are renewed, sweat pooling in the base of the assassin’s throat, “Please, please…” he murmurs, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “Or,” Dean continues, “I can make this slow, turn this arrow in your belly till everything is mixed and twisted inside of you, so how about you tell me who sent you?”

 

A hand lands on Dean’s shoulder; it’s delicate but firm, the touch betraying the man behind it. Staring at the dying assassin at his mercy Dean shrugs Castiel’s hand off his shoulder, “Don’t you want to know?”

 

Dean hears Castiel exhale behind him, breath rattling in his lungs, “Of course, but I don’t want you to torture him either.”

 

“He wanted to hurt you Cas, I can’t let anyone do that. It’s…it’s my job right?”

 

Dean’s fingers linger on the arrow, torn with indecision. He flexes them, eliciting another agonized sob from the dying man. “Dean!” Castiel shouts, voice thin and reedy. Glancing over his shoulder Dean spies the lines marring Castiel’s forehead, the sweat that trickles over the jut of his cheekbone, “This your first kill?” He is answered with a nod. The bow in Castiel’s hand squeaks as he grips it tight, chin tiling up somewhat so that he looks down at Dean over the bridge of his straight nose, “It is, but it is my duty. Now put this man out of his misery, I will not ask twice.”

 

The commanding tone has Dean raising a brow, his fingers leave the arrow as he stands and there’s an undeniable shiver that courses down his spine at the gravelly tone of his soon-to-be king. Castiel is straight backed, standing so close to Dean that the knight can spy the icy spider webs that track through the rich blue of his irises.

 

 “As you command”, Dean utters, as he holds his sword with two hands, tip of it hovering over the forest floor. Standing over the assassin, Dean positions the blade over the man’s throat. The man’s gaze tracks the silver line hovering above him, and then he closes his eyes with a grateful sigh. One hard thrust downwards and blood paints his blade, as the metal crunches between the vertebrae to severe the spinal column. With a wet grating sound Dean withdraws his blade from the man, feeling the metal grate against the severed spinal column, whose chest expels his dying breath in a wheeze.

 

Castiel takes a step closer to the assassin, toe of his black boot dipping into the flowing blood. Leaning over, his delicate fingers gently brushes over the man’s eyelids hiding his death clouded gaze. Dean turns his back on the assassin, adrenaline leaving him in a rush that makes his head spin. Stepping over the bank of soil Dean reaches for Impala’s warm steady neck, hand splayed across her glossy black coat. On his boots is a hint of crimson amongst the mud in a gory sluice. He feels his blood go thin as old memories of dark tents and tortured cries plague him, muffling the sound of Castiel’s approach.

 

“Are you well?”

 

Nodding his head Dean sheathes his bloody sword, “Fine” he bites out, “What I want to know is where Michael went, a little convenient isn’t it?”

 

Putting his foot into Blade’s stirrup Castiel mounts his horse, “I will not hear of you speaking badly of him; we grew up together, he is like a brother to me and my father thought of him as a son. His horse is not as fleet as ours.”

 

Huffing Dean clambers onto Impala’s back, gripping the reins to hide the shiver possessing his hands, “If that’s what you want.”

 

 

+++

 

 

The petite room holds only a small dining table, heavy thick wood that oozes the years of its life in dark whorls and deep gouges. Dean stares down at his plate of roasted pheasant, poached quail eggs and steamed vegetables, chin resting in the palm of his hand. Across from his Castiel’s own food was left untouched, the cup of wine having never left his lips long enough to sample the food. Casting his gaze across the table the prince lowered his goblet slightly, the rim still obscuring his lips from Dean’s view, “I thought your brother was going to join us.”

 

Dean shook his head, before stretching his legs out under the table, hard pit in his stomach gnawing away at him, “He has work to sort out now that the assassin that initially attacked you died during ‘ _interrogation_ ’” the last word was spat out, scathing and mired with its sharp tone. Placing his wine on the table Castiel ran a hand through his hair, Dean’s marked dip into depression having been explained ever since he had spoken to his brother after the hunt, “Did he reveal anything?”

 

“No, nothing, the torturer must have been heavy handed. It’s only been a few days, I could have…”

 

“Stop”, the tone was sharp and clipped, leaving no room for rebuttal. Dean felt himself swallow thickly in his throat as he met the icy blues of his prince, “You have tortured for this kingdom in the war, I have been told, and there are others to do the task now.”

 

Dean shifted his head, replacing the chin in his palm with his forehead, hiding his eyes behind his calloused fingers, “I’m broken anyway Cas, may as well make the most of the life rather than it being wasted at the hands of an amateur.”

 

Dean heard the chair being suddenly pushed back as Castiel stood, though he dared not look at the man, the air burbling with anger, “You are not broken.” The softly spoken words were at odds with the atmosphere, prompting Dean to finally pry his fingers away from his face. He was met with a soft yet determined faze, that raised the hackles on his back but the faint tremble coursing through Castiel’s body dampened the blow to Dean’s pride. “Why do you care so much?”

 

Dragging his chair around the table Castiel set it next to Dean before perching on the edge, “You wanted us to forget about the kiss-“ Dean’s face drained of colour, visibly blanching at the word, rolling his eyes Castiel continued, “But I will not, cannot, forget it because I have…loved you for a very long time now.”

 

Dean made to stand but was stopped by the firm grip on his bicep and the thin line of Castiel’s lips, “You may not be a coward when it comes to battle but when it comes to your emotions I have never met a man so beset with fear.”

 

“Leave it, what you are talking about is sodomy and it’s a sin, I don’t care who you are, no one is above God.”

 

A self depreciating laugh bursts from Castiel’s throat, “Are those your words, or your fathers, you do not strike me as a man who believes in God.”

 

Gripping the hand on his arm Dean squeezes it, tight, making Castiel flinch with pain, jaw clenched tight, “I don’t but others do and I’d rather not get executed.”

 

Castiel resists pulling his hand away, allows for the pressure that builds and builds to bend the thin bones in his hands to the point of breaking, sending agony lancing down his arm, “Why do you think everybody wants to be king? It’s because nothing is forbidden.” He clips out between sharp intakes of breath. Dean’s hand loosens around his, plump lips parting with an exhale, “And shortly, I will be king too.” Castiel finishes, finally bringing his throbbing hand away from Dean’s grip.

 

Standing once more Castiel cradles his hand, flesh tender to every movement, “Do I really inspire such disgust in you?”

 

Dean feels something painful twist in his chest, a stopper lodging itself in the base of his throat, “No, it’s just…” Dean’s eyes fall away from Castiel’s, heart hammering madly behind its cage of bone.

 

“Look at me you coward, or are you too afraid to even do that?”

 

The tone is hard, baiting, and Dean rises to the challenge as he gets to his feet. He closes the gap between them with a step, and latches onto Castiel’s shoulders, fixing him in place. Not a breath passes before Dean crashes their lips together. The kiss is hard and unforgiving, Dean’s teeth catches Castiel’s pliant lower lip, breaking the skin and making a droplet of blood bloom to the surface. His tongue laps at it and when Castiel gasps with the hard rut of Dean’s groin against his, Dean’s tongue passes through them, tasting and devouring his mouth, capturing Castiel’s body with his own.

 

They share the taste of Castiel’s blood, the sharp copper acting as the centerpiece to the sweet taste of the berry wine cloying Castiel’s tongue. The wine and heat of Dean’s body pressed flush against him makes Castiel dizzy, malleable beneath Dean’s assault as his tongue rubs against his, teeth clicking against one another. There’s a desperate tinny whimper from the prince, going weak without breath and Dean swallows it, breathes in its very essence. Finally Dean pulls away, fingers curling in the dark blue fabric of Castiel’s doublet. Their chests brush against one another as they both greedily suck in air.

 

As though coming back to himself Dean retreats a step, eyes widening as he brings his knuckles to his lips, feeling them effuse balmy warmth. Stumbling to the door Dean flings it open, and runs more than walks into the corridor, thoughts buzzing in his skull.

 

There was no alcohol to blame. No childhood naivety of the world. The only thing he could blame was the man that had uncorked the secret that had festered and grown in his heart.

 

 

+++

 

 

Dean wakes without the feeling of having slept, his nightmares had plagued him, had him tossing and turning on the too soft, too luxurious mattress he slept on. Pink tinged the sky with the hint of dawn. Sitting up in bed he let the blankets pool about his waist and soon became aware of the throbbing erection he had. Groaning Dean flopped back down onto the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose, the ‘nightmares’, were more wet dreams of a certain blue eyed prince that couldn’t seem to take no for an answer.

 

Slowly Dean reached for his cock, loosely wrapping his palm around the hot flesh. Closing his eyes he tried to think of all the women he had been with, the drunken rolls in a hard tavern bed, the quick sordid fumbles in the Winchester castle kitchen but none of it brought relief, every tug against his flesh was sandpaper, sensitizing every nerve without relief. Clenching his jaw Dean’s heels dug into the mattress as he arched his back, his hand set a furious pace over his cock, thumb rubbing over the silken slit. The ache was overpowering, flesh feeling like unforgiving stone. “That bastard,” he murmured, as his thoughts turned to the prince sleeping on the other side of the wall, opening his eyes he stared at the stones, breath hitching in the base of his throat as he felt pleasure ratcheting up in his belly, sweat rolling off him.

 

With his free hand he pushed away the sheets, the other running tight over the engorged vein on the underside of his cock. He pictured the prince’s mouth, soft and pliant around his cock, warm tongue tasting him and his delicate, long fingers running over the lines of his chest, bringing trickles of sensation in their wake. With a final twist to the crown of his cock Dean came, white spots blooming in his vision as pleasure singed his nerves and come hit his skin, wet and warm. Panting Dean blinked away the white, coming back to himself as he sucked in air.

 

Pushing himself out of the bed he looked at his hand, stomach flipping, “Fuck.”

 

Striding over to the washbasin Dean tugs off his shirt, having already discarded of his sleeping trousers in bed before grabbing a wet cloth and scrubbing his skin till it was burned pink.

 

Yet the smell of semen and sweat was in the air and after washing Dean flung open the windows and stuck his head out into the refreshingly cool air outside. He breathed in deep through his nostrils and let his elbows rest on the sill.

 

He had thought he had banished any kind or fond thought of the prince long ago, when they shared their first kiss. The sting of Castiel’s deception was a scab that he wanted to pick at, rip away the old skin even if it meant he bled and tore at the new flesh beneath. Women, alcohol and battle had made him forget for a time and even the ‘deception’ was cast into a new light, they had been children, had been worlds apart and Castiel had only wanted to find a real friend. Rubbing at his forehead with the base of his palm Dean tried to soothe away the mounting headache.

 

Moving away from the window he pulled on his clothes, barely registering that the tourney was tomorrow. As he tugged his green shirt over his bed roughened hair there was a tentative knock at the door.

 

Crossing over to it Dean yanked it open, heart stuttering in his chest and tongue turning to useless lead in his mouth. Castiel stood there, dark hair tousled spikes, eyes heavy lidded with lack of sleep and his lips dry and cracked, where Dean’s attention became fixated as Castiel’s tongue wetted them.

 

“Dean, I want to understand if you’re just toying with me or not.”

 

Dean’s brow quirked at the question, “You think that… **kiss** ” he stumbles over the word, as though it’s a physical weight resting in his mouth, “-was some sort of revenge tactic?”

 

Castiel shrugged helplessly, “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. At first I thought you hated me, then I thought we could at least be friends and now there’s this.” He finished with a vague wave of his hand.

 

Leaning against the doorframe Dean lets his head rest against the wood, “No, the kiss wasn’t. Though I can’t say for certain what I meant by it.”

 

The look of relief that spreads over Castiel’s face has guilt writhing under Dean’s skin like live worms, “Do you really think I hate you? Because, God forsake me for saying this but I’ve enjoyed spending the past few days together, you were a good friend to me when we were kids, try as I might I can’t stop feeling that way.”

 

Castiel exhales through his nose and lets a wry grin play against his lips, “I’m sorry for calling you a coward for ignoring your feelings, you are obviously far more like a virginal maiden than I credited you for.”

 

Pushing himself off the door frame Dean gives Castiel playful push, managing to send the prince back a step whose bright smile is undeniable in the dark before dawn breaks. “I have a reputation to uphold Cas, don’t go spreadin’ that slander.”

 

“But of course. And, come to think of it, since when did I allow you to start calling me that moniker, _Cas_?” The tone is annoyed but the grin remains, allowing Dean to shake his head, flip Castiel two fingers, close the door, and from behind it says, “Meet you outside in an hour.”

 

 

 

+++

 

 

Dark circles plague the younger Winchester’s eyes as he tore apart a fresh bun, a gentle breeze playing with the longer strands of his hair. Impala grazes on the grass next to him, the swish of her tail and the grinding of her teeth setting the peaceful atmosphere. Dean kneeled down on the grass next to him, legs hanging off the edge of the bank as the clear waters of the river burbled under them. “You look like shit.”

 

Breathing out a tired laugh Sam passes Dean his pouch of water, who sips it and stares down at the white bubbles floating atop the gentle river. “What would you do if you liked someone, but knew it was wrong?”

 

Sam chewed slowly and methodically as he half turned to face Dean, “Since when are you afraid of breaking rules or committing sins?”

 

Growling with frustration Dean tears a piece off his meat filled bun, steam rising from the gravy interior, “This time it’s different, I’ve got feelings for this person, beyond what my cock wants.”

 

Grimacing Sam takes back his water skin from Dean and takes another long draught, “Thanks for that image Dean.”

 

“I’m serious though, what I want is a sin and I’m not entirely sure it’s what I want yet.” Dean’s fingers curl into the long smooth grass, nails caking with the soft soil.

 

“Then you should at least give it a try right? Jess and I didn’t get along when we first met, all we could do was disagree and fight, but now…”

 

This time it was Dean’s turn to grimace as he watched a sleepy, satisfied grin cross Sam’s features, “Promise you’ll kill me before I become a wet piece of parchment like you.” Humming Sam kicks out his legs over the river, letting his heels bounce against the bank, “No promises there.”

 

The sound of footfalls makes Dean turn and then swallow, _hard_ , when he looks up at the prince. “You ready for your last day of training?” For a moment Dean merely stares up at Castiel before Sam nudges him in the ribs with his elbows, bringing motion back to the knight, “Yes, I’m coming.”

 

Pushing himself to his feet Dean gives a wave to his brother before following after Castiel, coming to the now familiar training ground of the churned mud, the quintain idly swinging in the soft breeze and Impala pawing the ground, nostrils flaring with impatience. Castiel hands him his helm, battered and dented and caked with mud. Carefully Dean takes it from him, allowing his fingers to slip over the row of Castiel’s fingertips, eliciting a shiver from the slightly shorter man. A thrill of smug satisfaction runs through Dean that manifests in a minute smile that Castiel catches with a flutter in the pit of his belly.

 

Putting on the helm Dean climbs atop Impala and loosely grips her reins before being handed the practice lance by Castiel. When the lance is safely in hand Castiel rests his hand on Dean’s inner thigh, delighting in the tremor he feels quiver in the muscle. He lets his hand rest there for another moment before letting it slide away and fall to his side and his ears pick up the smallest sigh that breathes through the helm.

 

Stepping away from Impala Castiel watches as Dean’s heels dig into the horses’ side and he raises his lance, grip firm and sure. Raising his chin, the quintain’s shield disappears from view as Impala barrels towards it, obscured by the visor of his helm. Sucking in a breath he feels the force of the strike reverberate in his arm, bones and muscles aching as he holds onto the lance. Turning Impala in a tight circle Dean sees Castiel through the thin slit in his helm, a wide unburdened smile blooming across his lips.

 

Perhaps it wasn’t so bad to strike it blind.

 

 

+++

 

 

Sweat rolled over his skin in a sticky torrent, making his shirt cling to him and the hair cushioned by the heavy metal helm felt tacky and greasy. His fingers slipped on the wooden lance, nearly losing his grip as Dean lined Impala up against the target.

 

“Let’s take a break,” Castiel calls from beneath the shade of the oak tree. With a grateful sigh Dean rips the helm from his head, “Thank God for that.”

 

A small frown crosses Castiel’s face at the blasphemy before he shakes his head and takes the lance from Dean’s sweaty grip. “But, really Cas, the joust is tomorrow, I shouldn’t take a break,” Dean protests as he wipes a hand over his brow, capturing a pearl of moisture that had begun to trace a line over his skin.

 

Throwing the lance to the floor Castiel shrugs out of his coat and leaves it draped over the arm of the bench, “I’ve given you all the teachings I know and you have had plenty of practice, now is the time for rest.”

 

Without waiting for any further protestations Castiel headed over the grassed field, heading towards the shining strip of the river that coursed its way through the castle grounds.

 

Cocking a brow Dean dismounted and draped the reins over the neck of his horse, “If you say so.”

 

Castiel waved a hand over his shoulder, dismissing Dean’s concerns as he scaled down the bank, boots slipping in the smooth mud before he reached the thin streak of pebbles before the water. There, Castiel sat down and began to pull off his long doe leather boots.

 

“What are you doing?” Dean asked, suspicion lacing his tone as he reached down to throw a rotund pebble into the placid flow.

 

“Isn’t it obvious that we’re going for a swim?” Castiel answered, glancing up at Dean from beneath the dark lashes that framed his eyes.

 

Heat shot straight into Dean’s belly as he watched Castiel kneel forward and pull off his dark blue shirt, revealing the pale skin of a royal that lay beneath. Dean’s gaze latched onto the small mole that lay next to his dusky nipple.

 

Not one to be outmatched Dean hurriedly ripped off his own clothing, stumbling on the pebbles as he tugged off his trousers and boots in one ungainly motion.

 

Gingerly Castiel stepped into the water, hairs rising as his feet are submerged in the cool, clear water. His toes curl in the rounded stones, making them click against one another.  He glances over his shoulder, noting the smug smirk on Dean’s face, “Cold?” he asks, hands planted on his hips, dressed now only in thin breeches that were hitched above his knees.

 

Pouting slightly Castiel waded out into the river, sucking in a breath as he stepped into the middle, forced to swim and submerge his chest. “Coming?”

 

The sun baked Dean’s freckled chest, sweat running down the lines of his defined musculature, “I am” he replies succinctly as he takes a step back and rushes towards the river, jumping over the shallows and landing with a splash next to the prince, earning an indignant curse from Castiel as water splashed over his head and into his eyes.

 

Dean resurfaced, water running over the curve of his boyish grin.

 

In retaliation Castiel extended an arm and swiped it over the surface of the river, slapping a large wave at Dean, making him splutter and blink rapidly, watching Castiel through beads of water that collected on his lashes.

 

Running a hand over his face Dean was confronted with the playfully determined scowl of his prince, hands already cupped, ready to unleash another barrage of water. Raising a hand Dean shook his head, lank hair clinging to his skin, “I yield.”

 

Tilting his chin Castiel sent him a lopsided smile, “Of course.”

 

With a sigh Dean floated on his back, looking up into the bright blue sky. Castiel merely treaded the water and stared unflinchingly at Dean’s tanned form. Swallowing his trepidations Castiel swam to Dean. Their legs tangled and brushed each other under the river’s surface, shadows passing one another. Slowly Castiel reaches a hand up Dean’s arm, feeling the water being shed over the slope of his hand as he ran it over his arm, allowing his palm to cup Dean’s bicep. Dean’s breath hitches in the base of his throat, the hand a hot contrast to the cooling water. “Cas” he whispers, hand coming to rest on the back of Castiel’s neck. Tilting his head to the side Castiel laughed, quiet and fond as his grip tightened on Dean’s flesh, “Calling your soon to be king pet names now?”

 

Batting away the flutters in his belly Dean leaned his wet forehead against Castiel’s, skin rubbing against the waterlogged tresses of hair, “I don’t think you’re just my future king.”

 

Holding onto Dean for support Castiel pulled his head away slightly, tip of his nose brushing against the jut of Dean’s cheekbone as he pressed his lips against Dean’s in a soft, chaste kiss. Castiel left his lips there and simply breathes, listening to the river water whispering against the pebbles and their own arms creating a gentle hush as they stayed afloat in the water.

 

Castiel jumped slightly then let out a heavy, forlorn sigh when he felt one of Dean’s hands come to rest on the hard line of his hipbone, fingernails gently rasping against his skin, eliciting shivers that had little to do with the temperature of the water.

 

Warm green eyes met the enrapture of blue as they said nothing else and merely kept each other above water.

 

 

+++

 

 

Once more dinner was exclusive to Dean and Castiel as they ate in Castiel’s private dining quarters, the small table the only divider between them. The two sat next to each other, facing the arched stained glass window of an avenging angel with a raven sitting on a tree branch by its side.

 

“Are you anxious for tomorrow?”

 

Eating a sliver of honey infused pork Dean rolled his shoulders, and replies, mid chew, “Not really, you’ve given me some great pointers, I’ve had plenty of practice too.”

 

Washing the pork down with the thin wine Dean watched Castiel carefully, “And you? You have to manage all of these rowdy knights.”

 

Sighing Castiel tipped his head back as he drained his own goblet of the fragrant drink, “I suppose I am.”

 

Spontaneous, Dean leaned over, licking the seam of Castiel’s lips to trace over the veneer of crimson liquid. His hand strayed to Castiel’s thigh, keeping them together for a moment before Dean withdrew, and cut himself another slice of pork from the steaming piece on his pewter plate as though nothing at all happened. Kneading the flesh of his thigh Castiel massaged the skin as though trying to reassure himself that what was happening to him was, in fact, reality.

 

“If we’re going to do **this** ” Dean began with a strange gesture of his hand, “I want to thank you first and make sure there’s nothing bad between us.”

 

Resting his elbow against the polished table top Castiel arched a delicate eyebrow, “Thank me for what exactly?”

 

Sucking in a breath, Dean clutched at the handle of his knife, staring at the sharp edge, “For not allowing me to cut into that assassin. I don’t want to be that person anymore--that hollow, empty torturer. I want to leave him behind in the old war.”

 

Castiel reached out, his fingers following the angle of Dean’s hand. But Dean, he brought it away, and stood, pushing out his chair and strode through the open doors and onto the balcony. The flames of the sconces set into the stone walls burned and crackled outside, casting an amber glow onto Dean’s skin. Moments later Castiel was outside with him, breath misting over his chapped lips as he stared out into the inky canvas of night.

 

“I didn’t do it just for you” Castiel murmured, “I did it because I’m selfish and I didn’t want to lose the man I’ve loved for quite some time now.”

 

Resting a hand against the stone railing Dean looked down at the ground, tiny specks of light bobbing along as guards carried torches on their patrol. Swallowing thickly, Dean’s canine worried the inside of his lip, “I’m not some maiden in a ballad, I’m a knight--my life isn’t my own, I shouldn’t have the luxury of love or feelings.”

Castiel didn’t note the wet glimmer he spied in Dean’s eyes, just let out a long breath, “You’re a man, not some mindless hound waiting for its master’s commands.”

 

His fingers tightened on the railing, fingernails blunting themselves on the veins in the rock, “That’s all I’ve ever done though isn’t it? All I’m good for. When I met you in the gardens all those years ago I wanted you but I let my father tell me what was best. When I was fighting in the war I let my commanders dictate where my sword fell and when they wanted information I allowed them to take my humanity when I cut into spies and informants.”

 

Wiping a hand across his eyes Dean tilted his head back to stare vacantly into the starry sky, “That’s who I am, I want to be with you but I’m not sure I can. I’m scared.”

 

Shaking his head Dean ran a hand through his hair, “God, look at me, spouting all this shit at you, you have your own problems, your father’s just died, you have a kingdom to rule and I’m complaining?”

 

A mirthless smile crossed Castiel’s face, “I could not show how my father’s death affected me, I buried the tears behind the face of a soon to be ruler. That does not mean I am inhuman or emotionless, I do what is required, like you did.”

 

Dean mirrored that same small smile, this one self-depreciating. “But,” Castiel began, “I have those that I can be myself with. You have taught me not to hide behind disguises, to accept who I am, that I am a King…yet,” Castiel murmurs, eyes wet, “This,” he adds, tracing a fingertip over the curve of Dean’s false smile, “Is a disguise as well. You are not the drunken, mirthful warrior turned torturer you want the world to think you are.”

 

Dean’s smile falls away yet Castiel’s fingers remain stuck to his plush lips. Slowly Dean takes his fingers gently in his hand, holding them tight. He kisses Castiel’s wrist, eyes clenched tightly closed.

 

Castiel says nothing, merely wraps his other arm around Dean’s back, bringing him close. He says nothing about the silent sobs wracking Dean’s body, nor the wetness soaking his collar when Dean buries his head in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

 

They stand as one, like perfect pieces slotted together; scabbard and sword. Castiel rests his cheek against Dean’s head and concentrates on the warm, rough hand that has captured his own.

 

“Dean” Castiel murmurs, lips falling apart with a faint wet pop.

 

Dean’s mouth has gone dry. Castiel’s blue eyes flicker over his face, drinking in every detail, counting every lash and freckle that graces Dean’s face.

 

Dean feels his hand moving, body knowing exactly what it wants. His palm smoothes itself over the dusting of stubble on Castiel’s cheek. The curve of his palm and the angle of Castiel’s cheekbone fit perfectly together. Castiel leans forward slightly, breath hitching in his throat.

 

Carefully, Dean begins to close the gap till he can feel Castiel’s warm breath ghosting over his lips. They stay there, lips hovering over one another’s for a suspended moment in time, where reality became a narrowed point of existence meant only for two.

 

Dean ducks down, lips pressing against Castiel’s. They’re dry but soft, chapped from never drinking enough water. Dean’s tongue slips out, tasting the line of Castiel’s pink lips. He tastes salt, wine and lavender soap, but underneath it is something unearthly, like how Dean would imagine how a cloud would taste; crisp, clean and sweet.

 

They part, hearts hammering and sweat springing onto their skin. The air between them is charged, hot, too much.

 

Without remembering how, Dean and Castiel end up in the Prince’s chambers, the fireplace crackling in the corner. Muted warm light that serves as their guide as they take off each other’s clothes, fingers lingering, touching, devouring the feel of each other’s flesh.

 

Castiel’s hands grip Dean’s arms as though to anchor him to reality, little half crescents dot his biceps, marking him, claiming.

 

Dean’s legs hit the edge of the bed and when Castiel leans into him, lips finding his in a greedy, possessive kiss that’s more bite than touch he stumbles backwards, and finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed.

 

Castiel’s eyes are dark, with only a thin ring of blue around the edges as he stares down at him, cock a hard line arcing up to his flat belly.

 

Swallowing Dean feels his own cock twitch at the sight as he looks up at him though it isn’t for long as Castiel sinks to his knees.

 

Now Dean is looking down at Castiel, at his tousled hair, his reddened lips that are parted as he breathes in with sharp little gasps, scenting the sweat and pre come in the air.

 

Slowly Castiel’s hands run themselves along Dean’s thighs, fingertips smoothing over the sensitive flesh that has Dean moaning and spreading his legs, inviting him to move his hands closer to his aching erection. Taking the invitation Castiel wraps a hand around his cock, smooth palm cupping the underside, pad of his thumb running along the engorged vein.

 

Dean throws his head back, and bucks up into the touch, feeling like a young inexperienced man all over again.

 

Castiel feels a thrill of power run through him, a kind of power he hasn’t felt before. Experimentally, he moves his loose fist up Dean’s cock, the curve of his fingers resting just shy of the head.

 

Dean’s fingers clench in the blankets, sweat runs down the line of his throat.

 

Heady, without thinking, Castiel lowers his mouth and runs his saliva-wet lips over the blushed head of Dean’s cock.

 

“God!” Dean cries, as he stares at Castiel in order to burn every movement of him worshipping his cock into his mind. Parting his lips Castiel’s tongue ekes out, tasting the bitter and salty pre come leaking from the slit and he _purrs_ like a god damn cat as he laps at it, making Dean’s hips jerk, helpless, desperately wanting to feel the warm wet heat of his mouth. Complying Castiel bobs his head, tongue flat against Dean’s cock, tasting the hot flesh in his mouth. And Dean, he’s helpless, a hand coming to rest in Castiel’s tousled hair, fingers pulling at the sweaty strands.

 

That only makes Castiel moan, a hand going to his own cock to jerk himself in times with the wet up and down slide of his lips. He thumbs the top of his own cock, feeling the damp rising there, the ache in his belly tightening.

 

It hurts at first when Dean thrusts up into his mouth, the knight’s eyes glazed with lust but Castiel relaxes his throat, allows it, feeling a jab of pleasure go straight through him as he rings the increasingly wanton moans and groans from the man he’s sucking.

 

“Fuck, I can’t last.”  Dean whispers, prompting Castiel to speed up his hand on his own cock whilst bringing his lips to the tip of Dean’s erection where he sucks, cheeks hollowed, waiting to taste.

 

With a final jab of his hips Dean comes down Castiel’s throat, the taste of his semen on Castiel’s tongue. The lewd sound of Castiel’s hand striping his cock acts as the backdrop for when he pulls away with a pop, lips blood red and tender and glistening with come.

 

Dean is transfixed as he watches his prince, on his knees before him, stroking himself to completion, mouth agape as he spills over his hands with a wrecked moan.

 

 

+++

 

 

Castiel awoke feeling sticky yet satiated and to the sight of Dean’s tanned back where bath water shone against his skin. His spine curved as he leaned down to fasten his boots, the dark line of his trousers present against his waist as he perched on the edge of the mattress.

 

Propping himself up on an elbow Castiel blinked away the film of sleep, a satisfied curve coming to fore across his mouth, “Morning.”

 

Dean turned slightly to flash him a white smile, “Morning,” he parroted, as he pushed off the bed to reach across the floor to scoop up his discarded shirt from the night before. “Today’s the day.”

 

Flopping back down on the mattress Castiel stared up into the ivory drapes that were festooned above him, “Yes it is but I can safely say I would much rather spend the day in bed.”

 

A fond chuckle left Dean, muffled slightly as he put on his rumpled shirt, “Isn’t that my line?”

 

Forcing himself to push back the warm coverlets and furs of his bed Castiel walked into his bathroom, stark naked as he replied, “Perhaps, but I know you will perform splendidly.”

 

The water in the bath was clean, aromatic oils lending an enticing scent to the steam, “Thank you for drawing me a fresh bath Dean, you didn’t have to.”

 

Leaning his arm against the doorframe leading into the bathroom Dean’s eyes soaked in Castiel’s naked form, the hard lines of his hips, the strong set of his muscles and arms from archery practice and most of all his gaze lingered on the pert globes of Castiel’s ass.

 

Feeling the gaze upon him Castiel denied to acknowledge the pleased flush that coloured his cheeks as he climbed into the bath, allowing the waters to slough away the semen and sweat that stubbornly clung to him. Scrubbing a hand through his hair Castiel clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he noted that Dean was still watching him, as though entranced with every ripple of lithe muscle and the stretch of every tendon beneath his alabaster skin, “Don’t you have a joust to get ready for?”

 

“I’ll see you there then,” Dean remarked as he took a step away, canine worrying his lower lip as he turned on his heel and walked out the room, carefully closing the bedroom door as he emerged into the hallway. No guards were outside, instead the brightly coloured noble Gabriel was there, sporting a self-satisfied grin.

 

Dean’s eyes raked over the garish outfit, plum leggings, brass buttons, daffodil doublet, all clashing. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Well,” Gabriel began as he began to circle Dean, also appraising the rumpled clothes the knight wore, “I was going to give Cassie a good talk, make sure he was going to be okay for today but that seems unnecessary now, doesn’t it?” He drawled, “You’ve seen to it yourself and that’s _lovely_.”

 

“Don’t mock me,” Dean snapped, hands curling into fists at his sides as he felt the familiar pounding at his temple but he managed to rein it back when Gabriel defensively raises his hands, “I wasn’t, I’m genuinely happy that you’ve overcome your pent up fears and have faced reality. You two are out of a ballad I swear to God.”

 

Rolling his eyes Dean shouldered his way past and flicked the noble two choice fingers over his shoulder as he went. With a smirk Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest and slowly walked away from Castiel’s door, later he would grill the soon to be king, that he swore. With a merry, lilting whistle he disappeared down the stairs, catching a glimpse of Dean walking down a corridor.

 

Rolling his shoulders Dean made his way into the main courtyard but stopped mid step as he was confronted with a bedlam of coaches, horses and knights each in a full regale of shining plate armour. Flags depicting squirming emerald dragons and ruby boars snapped in the wind, the smell of horse manure from the dozens of steeds in the courtyard added a musty scent to the air. Dean felt a bead of sweat snake over his brow; the joust was finally upon him. A tap at his shoulder shook Dean out of his reverie, facing Castiel’s hand servant Inias. “The Prince has some gifts that he would like you to wear today. Your squire has received them already. She awaits your presence in your tent.”

 

“Uh, thanks,” Dean mumbled, brows drawing together with thought as he strode over to his tent, dodging the young squires that darted through the chaos for their masters and the servants of the castle bustling to please the nobles and foreign knights with refreshments. Soon Dean’s plain inconspicuous tent bobbed into view on the outer edges of the field. In the distance Dean spied the tall wooden stands where the joust was to take place, already he could see a crowd milling around the structures, black ants that scurried to find the best seats.

 

Dragging his gaze away Dean flipped back the cover of his tent and was faced with Jo, who jumped up at the sight of him, bright smile on her pink lips. “You won’t believe what you’ve been given.”

 

Taking a step to the side Jo revealed a mannequin dressed in the finest armour Dean had ever seen outside of the very rich and fanciful ballads.

Each shining obsidian plate was a smooth plane, artfully dipping and folding over each piece, making the suit impenetrable but beautiful. Fine filigree accentuated the joins of the wearer; diamonds that surrounded the wrists and pointed upwards on the chest. Each piece was lined with another layer of gold metalwork, creating gold and black patterns of prancing griffons and bird’s wings. Picking up a gauntlet Dean traced his fingertip over the gold that lined the grooves for his knuckles, “The crowd is going to be disappointed when I can’t joust as well as my armour promises.”

 

Slapping his shoulder Jo bent down to start affixing the armour to Dean, “You’re skilled, so stop your complaints and wear it. You wouldn’t match Impala otherwise.”

 

Dean’s jaw dropped as Jo strapped the first piece onto him.

 

 

 

+++

 

 

“It’s been a long time, brother.”

 

Michael turned at the voice, lips pulling themselves into an easy, natural smile, “Hello Morning Star.” He replied as he stepped up to the man and pressed his palm against the blonde man’s stubble kissed jaw. “I hope the journey was not too arduous for you.”

 

Humming low in his throat the Morning Star pulled away slightly to look up at the tent’s roof, “It was fine but I did expect quarters in the castle.”

 

Folding his arms in front of his chest Michael scoffed at Lucifer, feeling the first bead of irritation begin to gnaw at him, “You can’t have your arrival here be a secret _and_ have luxurious accommodation.”

 

Grinning, Lucifer circled Michael. His blue eyes devoured every inch of his body, soaked in the finer details of the expensive doublet, the rich thick fabric of his cloak and the rubies that dotted the links of the chain that fanned out over his chest, “Though you have not done badly here. Being the king’s bastard has its perks after all.”

 

Michael’s fingers curled into his arm, nails biting into his flesh, threatening to rip the silken fabric, “Not that anyone knows, not yet.”

 

Slotting his hands over Michael’s hips the Morning Star stood behind him and let his chin rest against Michael’s shoulder, “Soon everyone will know and you will take what is rightfully yours…and share it with me of course.”

 

Rubbing his cheek against the Morning Star’s, Michael breathed out a long sigh, feeling himself relax against the muscular man behind him. “I only wish we could put our plan in motion sooner, skip this fanciful joust and take the throne.”

 

Nipping Michael’s earlobe the Morning Star growled low and deep into his ear, sending a shiver down his spine, “No, tonight, this joust is necessary. There are many foreign knights here with designs for this kingdom, which will make the culprit nigh impossible to identify.” Licking the reddened skin the Morning Star added, “Plus, I want to win this joust, see the Prince give me the first prize of many more to come.”

 

Letting go of Michael the Morning Star’s strong hands landed on his shoulder and spun the noble around, “Make sure that I win Michael and I will reward you _handsomely_.” The last word was whispered, low and sultry as the Morning Star leaned into Michael to plant his lips against the corner of his mouth.

 

+++

 

 

Dean sat alone in his tent, looking over his donned armour. It was light but sturdy, a little flamboyant for his tastes but Dean admitted to himself that he’d never looked better. It would soon prove itself as Dean waited to be summoned to the field.

 

“Ah, Sir Dean, your new armour becomes you. Strange how the Prince favours you so.”

 

Flicking his eyes upwards Dean forced out a cough to disguise the groan that escaped his throat, “Sir Michael, to what do I owe the honour?”

 

Waving away the forced formality Michael picked up a rickety wooden stool and sat before Dean, careful to gather his minx fur trimmed cloak into his lap, keeping it from the churned mud that served as the floor. “I would like to propose a deal. I believe we can come to an understanding.”

 

Quirking a brow Dean leaned back in his chair, “And what’s that then?”

 

Running his fingers over the thick gold chain at his throat Michael’s storm green eyes cut through the modest light of the tent, “I would like for you to make it to the final match and then lose it. In return for reasonable compensation of course.”

 

There was the slight clank of metal as Dean stiffened, “My pride can’t be bought.”

 

Smiling thinly Michael stood, his seething glare burning into Dean’s eyes who met the gaze unflinchingly, “If you need further incentive I can provide it. There are many people gathered here today that you love, I know, you wouldn’t want anything to happen to them now would you?”

 

The chair fell back as Dean stood, armoured hand pulling Michael off balance as he yanked at the collar of Michael’s milk hued doublet, “If you hurt my brother, or Ca-or Jess,” Dean hurriedly covered, “I won’t think twice about gutting you.”

 

Placing his hand on Dean’s black gauntlet, Michael rasped out, “We could have been allies but I see you are too unpredictable.” A small dagger eked into view in the corner of Dean’s eye as it flashed against his cheek. “Do it,” He challenged watching the frustration pulling Michael’s lips into a scowl, “Another scar won’t hurt.” The knife was dropped into the mud, where Dean left it without thought.

 

Dean’s grip tightened, the sound of fabric ripping piercing the air in a long keen, accompanied with the shortening breaths of air coming from Michael as only his tiptoes remained on the ground. “So, we’ve come to an understanding then?” He bit out, eyes green fire. “We have,” Michael’s voice coming thin and strained. With a huff Dean released him, making the noble fall to his knees, white stars blinding him as he desperately sucked air into his deprived lungs. Struggling to his feet Michael pushed his way through the flaps of the tent but left Dean with the searing image of a grin that he shot over his shoulder, worn only by wolves before they tore out the throat of their prey.

 

The sound of a bugle rang out, signaling the end of a match. Shaking his head, Dean cleared his mind as he left his tent. The sun was still low in the sky, the morning filled with the first heat of the joust. Just outside his tent Impala was hobbled, head down as her lips roved over the ground for blades of grass. Looking over Dean spied Michael striding back to the stands, a hand resting on his sword. Ignoring the creeping trepidation clawing up his spine Dean slotted his foot into the stirrup and with a grunt pulled himself into the saddle. Impala’s coat shone, her mane was tied into tiny plaits and her long flowing tail was pulled into a tight bun. She too wore black armour with golden trims, with cupped flares protecting her eyes and spikes protruding along the line of her nose. With a click of his tongue Dean commanded Impala to walk towards the tournament field.

 

A thrum filled the air; a thunder created from the voices and feet of hundreds of people, cloistered together in the tight wooden stands. Impala’s ears swiveled forwards and Dean’s back straightened in the saddle. He exhaled through his clenched teeth, smelling blood on the air. As he rounded the back of the structure the long line of the track and barrier stretched out before him. A knight, arm a bloody mess of wooden splinters and bent metal groaned at his side, held in crude stretcher as he was ferried away from the grounds. Sam came to his side, hazel eyes tracking over him, which produced a proud grin, “Nice armour.”

 

Dean flushed but turned his head away as if watching the injured knight pass him by, “An injury already?”

 

“Not only that,” Sam replies, “But you’ve been pushed back a space, there’s a new competitor who has insisted on competing next.”

 

Huffing, Dean leaned back in his saddle, feeling himself relax beneath his armour plating, “Fine by me, doesn’t matter which order we go in.” Sam glanced up at him, dimples flashing across his cheeks, “You’re unusually nervous. Doesn’t have anything to do with this person you mentioned at the river does it?” A derisive snort burst from Dean’s nostrils, “N-no it doesn’t,” He stumbled out, sweat beading beneath his padding, “Anyway, what on God’s green earth are you wearing?” As he looked at Sam, finally noticing his attire.

 

“Jess made it for me and you have no sense of taste anyway. Nice try at changing the course of our conversation by the way.” Sam muttered, looking down at his bright red doublet, fingers plucking at the amber buttons gracing it. “Got that right.” Dean said just as the air changed, becoming pregnant with tension.

 

A hush fell over the crowd, quelling the sounds of raucous revelry. A man in shining golden armour peppered with cruel curved spikes appeared at the end of the field, atop a huge black stallion. On the man’s chest plate a silver star flared.

 

Dean watched as Castiel stood in the royal stand, chin rising in defiance as his blue eyes blazed from the shade. “Morning Star,” He announced, “To what do we owe the honour of your presence today?”

 

Lucifer’s cold sapphire eyes gleamed with mischief, “Your Majesty, please, that horrid nick name from the war has no place here. I come as a guest, here to compete in some friendly sport.”

 

Castiel dipped his head slightly in acceptance and dropped back into his seat, fingers straying to the silver raven suspended from his throat.

 

Dean’s heart was hammering in his chest as that same golden armour brought flashes of bloody battles into his mind, where his arm was sore from ripping his sword through bone, his eyes sore from the acrid smoke of fires as bodies burned and the stench of fear, shit, blood, and sweat plagued the air. Amongst the memories was the same man, swinging a spiked mace into his comrades with vicious bloodthirsty strikes.

 

“Dean? Are you okay?” Sam’s voice came, ripping him back to the bright sunshine of the morning, the scent of spilled ale and fresh leather polish, “Yes,” He answers, voice quavering. Clearing his throat Dean looks down at Sam, gripping the bridge of the saddle as he leans down, “Did you know about this? What about the spies and guards, we should have known about the Morning Star coming weeks ago.” Sam shrugs helplessly, tongue wetting his dry lips, “No, I didn’t and neither did Castiel by the looks of it.”

 

Pulling himself back up into his saddle Dean’s canine worried his lip as he watched Lucifer take his lance from his squire, a pretty young girl with long brown hair that finished in delicate curls. The lance was painted in an alternating swirling pattern of crimson, onyx and yellow topped with the requisite metal cap that was forged into a spiked ball, like the mace the king was famous for using in battle.

 

His opponent was a young man who sat astride a lithe liver coloured mare, her small hooves fidgeting in the packed dirt. The knight’s armour bore many scars but the rider seemed confident, deep brown eyes staring unflinchingly down the field as he easily held his heavy lance in his arm, holding it with a practiced ease as he slotted the end into his saddle. The announcer walked out onto the field, lurid colours of his clothes painting him like an overgrown peacock, all periwinkles and violets. “This second match pits Sir Johnstone of Aventone against the King of Daitory, his Majesty Lucifer. The winner goes through to the next match and is one step closer to the grand prize.”

 

The announcer raised his small flag, the royal raven artfully stitched onto the rich blue fabric, and with a snap the match was started as the announcer backpedaled off the track.

 

Lucifer kicked at his stallion, spurs bringing blood hot and sticky to his horse’s skin, which reared, jumping from its standing position into a gallop with a high-pitched whiny. The liver mare’s start was slower, more sedate as Sir Johnstone squeezed her sides with his heels, but soon she too fell into a loping gallop. The horses raced closer, the tilt between them keeping them apart. The riders raised their lances, crossing the barrier. Lucifer’s arm twitched, subtly moving his lance a little.

 

Splinters shattered over armour, the crowd roared with pleasure as Sir Johnstone was thrown from the saddle from the perfect, powerful strike to his chest. There was a clang of metal as he fell onto the tilt, a scream of pain underlying the cheers as he slid off the barrier and onto the sand.

 

The man writhed, hand resting on the small of his back as his heels dug into the sand, arching his back. His shouts were muffled by his helm but soon the crowd went quiet at the man’s struggles. The knight’s squire and several others went to him. A few minutes passed and the man’s screams of agony eventually died away and then from some unseen signal the announcer went back onto the field and raised his flag, “The winner is His Majesty, Lucifer!”

 

Swearing under his breath Dean caught the cruel smile that stretched Lucifer’s lips as he pulled off his helm, his fair hair tousled. That smile was turned upon him, making Dean freeze, feeling the grin like an arrow pointed at his breast.

 

“He’s…good,” Came Sam’s awed voice to which Dean huffed and growled out, “And an evil bastard Sammy, I can’t wait to wipe that grin off his mug.”

 

Patting Dean’s leg Sam took a step back towards the stands, “Just concentrate on your own match, which is going to start in a few minutes.” With a wave Sam made his way over to the noble’s stand and Dean watched, heart starting to speed up in his chest as Sam took his seat only a few away from Castiel.

 

Castiel’s eyes found him and Dean felt a current jolt through him as a small smile was directed his way, the flash of his white canine biding away his encroaching anxiety.

 

Down the field Dean spotted his opponent. He rode a large war horse with ease, the beast was heavy footed, muzzle dotted with white spots. The man to Dean’s surprise was a moor, who wore a very light armour, mostly chain but for the breast plate and helm that was currently resting between his hip and forearm.

 

Jo came to his side and rested her shoulder against Impala’s flank, “You’ve got a foreign knight as your first opponent. With that little armour you should send him flying.” She said through a cocky smirk as she passes Dean his new sleek helmet, the visor of which was cut into thin rectangles only on one side. “Hopefully,” Dean remarked, all too aware of Lucifer’s lingering presence on the fringes of the tourney grounds, eyes tracking every twitch of movement made by Dean.

 

With a sigh Dean donned his helmet and then grabbed his lance, which once more showed the symbols of his house, green twisting ivy and rampant gold griffons. With light steps the announcer once more made his way onto the sand, grimacing slightly as his delicate shoes sunk into the bloodied grains. Clearing his throat he puffed out his chest, “This round we see Sir Dean of Winchester competing against Sir Gordon of Wallenkore.” Dean breathed out slowly, eyes trained on the flag as he tensed in the saddle--the eyes of the crowd on him, a physical weight upon his shoulders. As though the announcer’s arm travelled through congealed molasses he raised the flag and then with a flourish, lowered it.

 

Gritting his teeth Dean kicked at Impala’s side. Her hooves dug into the sand as she launched into a fast canter and then into a mad gallop, her strong legs carrying Dean towards Sir Gordon’s lance. The chink of armour rubbing against plates, the creak of leather as it was stretched, the feel of Impala breathing and moving under him, all were familiar and so too was the weight of the wooden lance that rested in his grip. The sounds of the crowd filtered away ‘till only those familiar ones remained. Adjusting his feet in the stirrups Dean sat forward, pushing out his lance. Castiel’s teaching came back to him and with a subtle tweak of his wrist the point of the lance moved, angling upwards. With a strange calm Dean stared into the whites of Gordon’s eyes, like flickers of sun-bleached bone through the gaps in his helmet. Then, time came flooding back like a tidal wave.

 

The brutal punch of a successful strike reverberated up Dean’s arm, shaking and jostling his bones. Dimly he was aware of a glancing strike to his abdomen but that was secondary to the sight of Gordon’s feet slipping from his stirrups; the helmet being ripped from his head as he was thrown backwards, clear of the tilt and onto the sand.

 

The crowd surged to their feet, their claps and whoops of joy infectious music that made Dean grin. Pulling at Impala’s reins Dean brought her to a stop, turning her about he saw Gordon sit up in the sand, a hand pressed to his temple where a line of blood eked from his dark hairline. Gordon drew the hand away and raised his hand in the signal for defeat.

 

Dean never heard the announcer declare his victory, instead he faced Lucifer and took off his helm, meeting the icy stare with his own dancing green gaze. His blood thrummed with pleasure as he saw Lucifer’s smirk fracture slightly into a grimace but even sweeter was the flush of relief and the proud smirk gracing his prince’s face when he turned to look at him.

 

 

+++

 

 

Dean’s next two matches went without hindrance, knocking both opponents from their saddles.

 

Lucifer’s opponents however writhed in pain, thick splinters from his lance stabbing into one and the other suffered a broken arm that twisted grotesquely at the elbow, such was his merciless jousting style.

 

Dean sighed as he stood outside his tent as he ran a wet cloth over his temple. The final match was to start soon, where he would finally meet Lucifer.

 

Slipping into his tent Dean noticed a dark shadow travelling over the thin membrane of the canvas of his tent, the thin figure creeping to the entrance of his tent. Schooling his breathing Dean reached for the knife at his belt and slowly began to thumb it from its sheath. “Dean.”

 

Breathing out a sigh of relief Dean turned to face Castiel, that gravelly voice unmistakable in its tenor and the shiver it sent through him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

 

Shrugging nonchalantly Castiel stole a step closer, “But I’m rather good at it usually.” Pressing his thumb to Castiel’s chin Dean raised a brow, “Is that so?”

 

Dean jumped as he felt a hand snake under his plate armour, the warm flesh cupping his soft cock, “I’m usually _very_ good.” Choking back a groan Dean let his head fall back slightly, “Cas, I can’t, I’ve got to trounce that Lucifer bastard.”

 

Chuckling softly Castiel withdrew his hands and leaned up slightly to lick a long hot line over Dean’s Adam’s apple, “I’m just giving you some more motivation. After you’ve won meet me under the oak tree where we’ve been practicing.”

 

Dean’s hands wound themselves around Castiel’s slender hips, pressing him hard against the unforgiving suit of armour. With a gentle kiss he slotted his lips against Castiel’s teeth, nipping the delicate skin, burning colour into them. “Can’t wait,” Dean murmured against him, eyes hooded with the low burning pleasure.

 

“Dean?”

 

Dean’s eyes flew open, meeting the stunned countenance of his brother, only half in his tent. Hurriedly Castiel backed away from Dean, fingers covering his lips as though to hide their bite stained hue. Swearing under his breath he put his hand on the back of his neck, rubbing it slightly as he felt his panic growing, “Look Sam, you might think it’s wrong or-“

 

Sam raised a hand, “No, I don’t, if prince Castiel makes you happy I’ll keep your secret and support you.”

 

Castiel’s hand dropped away from his mouth, turning his wide eyes on the taller man.

 

“Just…” Sam continued, “Be careful okay? Both of you.”

 

Reaching out Dean rested his hand against Castiel’s shoulder, hard tips of his gauntlet massaging little circles into the rich midnight cloak that adorned the Prince’s shoulders, “We will, thanks Sammy.”

 

“I was coming to tell you that you should come back to the grounds now, the match will start at any moment.”

 

Slipping Dean’s hand off his shoulder Castiel nodded, “Of course, I was just wishing your brother good luck.” Sam half laughed, half slumped his shoulders as he followed after Castiel as they exited the tent, “Trust my brother to pick the most inappropriate partners, first that nun Lisa and now you…”

 

Scooping up his discarded helm from the wooden stool Dean tried in vain to wash away the smile on his lips, but even now they tingled with the memory of Castiel against them.

 

 

+++

 

 

The sun was low in the sky, painting the horizon a bloody red and casting long ominous shadows across the ground, inky hands that cooled everything they touch. One of those shadows fell across Dean, already sitting atop his horse. The hairs rose on the back of his neck and he resisted the urge to shiver. The crowd was unusually quiet for the final match; they all sat and stared, more painting than living collection of people.

 

Dean casts his gaze down the field; the golden armour of Lucifer was turned into a dull brass in the half-light but even from here Dean could see that no marks erred its surface nor dents interrupted the smooth curves. Looking down at his own black armour Dean grimaces at a few a dents and a long deep scratch that cut through the coal black colour covering his belly. Castiel’s azure eyes are a comfort as they watch him, and Sam too tracks his movements and offers a smile every time their eyes meet but it does little to instill Dean with the confidence he had in the morning, now that he’s faced with the infamous warrior king.

 

Jo’s hands are busy at work, plaiting some of Impala’s hair that has come free over the day. Absentmindedly he watches her tanned fingers at work, “He’s knocked every rider off at the first run.”

 

Shrugging, Jo continues her work, “That’s true, but he hasn’t faced you yet. You’re stubborn, you’ll stay in the saddle.”

 

Dean’s stomach drops and bile washes into his mouth as the announcer steps out onto the field, every inch of him makes Dean want to pummel the guy and his voice is the single most irritating thing he has ever heard. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fluttering in his belly and the tightening of his grip on the leather reins.

 

“Welcome one and all to the final round of this tourney. This is the climax, the moment you have been waiting for. Here today stand our fiercest warriors; Sir Dean of Winchester and King of Daitory, his Majesty Lucifer. Whoever shall triumph will win Prince Castiel’s prize and the respect and honour of Salvation’s people. All who have triumphed and all who have fallen today are each powerful and skilled warriors and it was Salvation’s pleasure to have you here today, but now without further ado…”

 

Dean rolled his eyes at the long speech, skin crawling as though too tight, saddled with anticipation. Once more the announcer raised the royal insignia, the symbol of the black crow and crossed silver swords billowing in the wind as he held it aloft. It dropped. Dean’s heart lurched in his chest and so too did Impala when he dug in his heels, a little too hard, making her whiny, nostrils flaring, as she headed towards the muscular black stallion barreling towards them which carried Lucifer.

 

Heart hammering in his chest Dean raised his lance, the helmet suffocating him, armour too heavy as he stared at the horned helmet worn by Lucifer, the last remnants of sunlight glinting off his armour. Before he realised it there was a blinding flash of pain and stars danced in his vision. Instinctively Dean held on, fingers curling under the bridge of the saddle. He felt himself sway, head ringing and strangely empty.

 

Dimly he was aware of Impala slowing down, a voice calling to him. Ripping off his helmet Dean gasped for air, letting his skin hit the twilight. “What happened?” He asked, voice thick and sluggish. Jo’s hands were on his legs, keeping him in the saddle, “The Morning Star’s lance struck your helm, he got two points.”

 

Shaking his head Dean grimaced as it intensified the sharp shrill echoing in his skull, “That’s okay, I’ll score next time.”

 

“Just stay focused Dean, you can do this.” Jo’s fingernails scraped against his leg armour as her fingers curled.

 

“You’re a good squire and an even better friend,” Dean uttered as he put his helmet back on, ignoring the cheers and insults of the crowd but he didn’t miss the falter in Jo’s smile at his words.

 

Sighing he led Impala back into place and accepted his joust once more. Leaning down he patted Impala’s neck, where sweaty white foam began to cling to her, “Just two more rounds girl, then you get a rest.”

 

The flag dropped, Lucifer flicked down his visor, cocky grin concealed and kicked hard and merciless against his warhorse. The two black horses raced against the tilt, their riders eyed the each other. Dean listened to the hoof beats, watched the way Lucifer moved his lance and breathed in, deep cooling air and took aim. The shock of impact burst through him, rocking him in the saddle. Lucifer’s head was flung backwards at the strike, a glimpse of his tanned neck peeking through the plates in his neck armour. Yet again though Lucifer’s lance struck home, hitting Dean’s helmet. This time Dean felt his teeth bite through his lip, hot copper flavored blood soaking his tongue and staining his teeth. Turning Impala back he let her trot back to Jo as he once more took off his helmet.

Immediately he leant over and spat out a glob of blood, where it flecked his lips and chin, narrowly missing Impala’s polished hooves. Groaning Dean sat back up in his saddle and caught the stiff set of Castiel’s shoulder, the way his hands gripped the arm of his high backed chair. Rolling his shoulders Dean raised his helmet and grinned, showing off his bloodied teeth to the crowd.

 

The crowd swelled, voices screaming for Dean, “That’s more like it!” Dean he shouted out, playing the crowd with practiced ease.

 

“Listen to me, to win you need to unhorse him and that’s _if_ he misses, which he hasn’t done so far.”

 

Flashing Jo a shit eating grin Dean donned his helmet for the last time, words muffled by the protective metal shell, “First time for everything.”

 

Dean snorted at his own joke, thinking of Castiel as he fitted the joust, nice and tight into its slot in the saddle.

 

Lucifer at the other end of the field breathes out, blood thrumming through his veins, adrenaline sparking hot in him, he could feel his horse shaking under him, legs ready to collapse under the weight of his armour. His eyes snaps to the flag and when it was lowered he dug in his spurs.

 

Dean lowers his chin, the bright emerald eyes exposed through the slits in his helmet. Lucifer takes the normal stance, raising his chin to protect his eyes. Their horses meet, their lances cross over the tilt. Dean never rips his gaze away, watching the low sun throw sparks off the lurid armour of the Morning Star, he thrusts his lance out, arches his back and strains his shoulders, grunting slightly as he forces all of his strength into the strike.

 

The lance hits, Lucifer drops his lance and tumbles from his horse.

 

Dean never heard a crowd cheer quite so loud; he felt their cries in his very bones. From atop Impala’s back he looked down at the fallen star, on his back, armour scratched and dirtied from the shed blood of the joust and the abrasive sand. Dean expected anger, frustration, anything but the utter uncomprehending shock that made Lucifer’s face lax in the encroaching gloom of evening. For any other competitor he would have dismounted, pulled the other knight to the their feet and waited till they regained their breath, all too familiar with being winded after being unhorsed, but this man, this monster that started wars and flashed his wealth like a spoiled peacock didn’t deserve it. Instead Dean flicked up his visor, white smile in stark contrast to his midnight black armour and saluted to the Morning Star, still gasping in air through his bruised rib cage. And there he saw the anger, the flame of hate burning like embers in his eyes.

 

Turning Impala about he watched as Castiel stood from his seat, a long polished wooden box in his hands as he made his way down the stairs. Swinging his leg over Impala’s back Dean lithely hopped to the ground, his injuries from numerous lance strikes forgotten as Castiel approached him. Sand scuffed next to him, a noticeable gasping whispered against his eardrums as Lucifer managed to stand and walk away, using the hard line of the tilt for support.

 

When Castiel stood before him, Dean fell to one knee, breath bottled tight in his chest as he placed a hand over his breast in a sign of fealty. Castiel raised a hand, signaling for quiet from the boisterous crowd. “Here, today, is my champion, arise Sir Dean of Winchester and claim your prize.”

 

With a clank of armour Dean stood. It was as though he were seeing Castiel for the first time. A regal soon to be king stood before him, strong shoulders a confident line, chin tilted just so as to convey power and bravery, the lines around his eyes were soft yet noticeable speaking of wisdom and an age beyond his mortal years but it was his eyes, his blue cerulean eyes that made Dean suck in a mouthful of air--they were gentle, human. Numbly he held out his hands as Castiel passed the wooden box to him. With shaking hands Dean undid the latch and felt his mouth go dry. Inside was a scabbard long enough for Dean’s sword. On it where silver ravens, wings flared to wrap around the curve of the scabbard, encasing it with their silver wings. In each of their eyes was a small sapphire, cut so fine that they gleamed even in the shadows and the end of the scabbard was capped in silver with filigree reminiscent of ivy wrapping around the motif of two crossed swords. Next to it was a pouch and when Dean tugged loose the fastening fat golden coins spilled out, enough to save his father’s county.

 

Clearing his throat Dean tore his eyes away from the scabbard, “Thank you my prince for this most gracious gift.”

 

As though they were nothing more than acquaintances Castiel nodded slightly and pivoted on his heel, striding away as his cloak billowed out behind him in an ephemeral cloud.

 

Running his tongue over his lips Dean grabbed Impala’s reins and walked from the joust with the sounds of the crowd reverberating off his armour.

 

 

+++

 

 

“Michael!”

 

The noble swallowed down his trepidation, heart lurching as he stepped into Lucifer’s tent. The scene before him bespoke of an all consuming rage, where tables and stools had been flipped, clothes were strewn across the ground like broken and trampled butterflies and the wine, the victory wine, curdled the brown mud into a shining vermillion.

 

Lucifer stood, waist down still in armour as he panted, thin linens sticking to his chest as he clasped his temple in a ploy to bade away his rage fueled migraine.

 

“How could I lose to some simple country knight?! One that I’ve never even heard of!” Lucifer raged, fingers wrapping themselves around the pommel of his sword.

 

Cautiously, Michael stole a step closer, “It was luck Lucifer and it won’t matter soon. I’m about to commence our plan, so calm yourself _brother_.”

 

There was a hiss of metal as Lucifer withdrew his sword slightly but then, after a moment, there was a snap as he shoved it back down the scabbard, “You are not my brother, you are a bastard of King Carver and some kitchen wench, hardly better than the stable boys at my own palace.”

 

A mirthless chuckle escapes Michael, “That may be so but you need me as much as I need you. Other than Castiel I am the only legitimate claim to the throne. Your army is no match for Salvation’s. So still your emotions, fool.” With that bitten out Michael left the tent, throwing back the flaps of canvas as he stormed away, fingers itching for the hard comfort of his dagger. His spies had foretold of a secret meeting, where Castiel would be alone, just long enough for Michael to act.

  
The boughs of the oak tree came into view and with it a silhouette. “My Prince,” Michael called, “What on earth could you be doing here?”

 

Castiel jumped, heart skipping a beat in his breast as Michael approached.

 

“Michael, I wasn’t expecting you,” Castiel breathed out, hand wandering to his chest as he felt the organ beating hard against his skin. Cocking his head to the side Michael hummed, “Really my prince? Is that because you were here to play with that whore Winchester?” Castiel’s blood ran thin, a paralysis that spread throughout his whole body.

 

“Though I wouldn’t worry about it my _prince_ ,” He drawled as he came closer and closer, fingers finding purchase on the dagger concealed beneath his robes, “Because neither of you will be alive to feel the burn of distain.”

 

Michael’s hand snatched at Castiel’s shoulder, holding him still as he plunged the dagger deep and hard, between his ribs.

 

Pain erupted in Castiel’s side, weakly he held onto Michael’s hand that held the dagger inside him. Agony crawled through him and pricked at his eyes where tears ran freely from his cerulean eyes. He could feel his blood leaving him, his head becoming dizzy with the pain, with the blood loss. “Why?” He whispered, eyes already threatening to roll back into his skull as the torturous pain spread like forks of lightning through his flesh.

 

“Oh I have my reasons.” He supplied and with a snap of his wrist Michael twisted the blade, feeling more warm blood pool over the blade, pattering the grass beneath their feet.

 

Stepping away Michael watched with a smile as Castiel crumpled to his knees, eyes becoming glassy, losing their focus as his head lolled from side to side as he fought the dark curtain threatening to snatch away his consciousness. He breathed out, looking at the bench, thinking of sweeter, simpler days.

 

“Cas?!”

 

Michael turned at the voice, the deep growl unmistakable. Dean’s normally golden complexion was ashen, bright eyes dull as he soaked in the scene before him, the blood pooling around Castiel’s knees, making a quagmire of the soil and the curved dagger held lithely in Michael’s grip. Dean fell to his knee, hand cupping around the side of his neck.

 

Dean’s free hand went to the sword on his belt; “I’ll kill you for this Michael.” A white film was descending, shock and anger clouding him as his sorrow was tamped down, building inside of him.

 

Clicking his tongue against the roof of the mouth the noble withdrew his dagger back beneath the thick richness of his coat, “No you won’t, I have arranged for two guards to patrol this area, they are due any minute. They are my men, completely loyal to me.”

 

Clenching his teeth Dean let his hand drop from the grip of his sword and instead turned his attention to Castiel who was staring up into the swaying boughs of the oak tree. The oak leaves were bright, turned luminous by the setting sun shining through them but brighter still were the green eyes of his knight, wet with unshed tears.

 

“Cas…” He murmured fingers tracking over his cheeks, as if afraid to touch. “I’ve got you, you’re going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you,” He let out in a breathless rush, as he tried to ignore the dark blood that oozed from the ragged wound. Castiel’s hand found his, fingers wrapping around his wrist, the fingertips finding the fluttering pulse. Dean’s flesh was warm; a salve against the agony but even that consuming pain was fading now.

 

Dean’s palm slotted itself against the side of Castiel’s face, where his calloused palm fit snug against his cheekbone, “Don’t give up, not now. I know I want you now you selfish bastard,” Dean sobbed out, tears pattering against Castiel’s pale cheek.

 

All Castiel could do was smile as the darkness finally won. Dean wanted him after all.

 

 

+++

 

 

Sam’s eyelids were heavy, red veins tracked through his eyes from both lack of sleep and the tears. He knew his last hope rested in the bed he guarded, there was no one else to discredit the evidence. Dean found bloody with Castiel all alone, the dagger with the symbol of the Morning Star left in his tent and all of the unexplained absences in the days leading up to the tournament.

 

Sam’s fingers curled in the soft furs covering the prince, whose breath rattled in his chest. The covers were at his waist, for sweat shone in a veneer on his skin. The bandage was a stark white line but a bright red welt stained part of it from the weeping wound.

 

“Would you like something to drink?”

 

Sam jerked slightly at the voice, surprised to find Inias in the room with him, silver pitcher of water held in his hands. “I’m fine,” Sam mumbled as Inias set the pitcher down on the bedside table. “Thank you for watching him these past few hours,” Inias began, “But shouldn’t you head down to the courtyard now, they’ll be starting soon.”

 

Sam’s eyelids fluttered closed, panic clawing at his heart, “I know.”

 

There was a knock at the door. Inias walked over, hand hovering over the handle as the door was kicked in. A woman in a black hood stepped into the room and spun on her heel, palm slapping itself against Inias’ forehead. With a crack the man’s head hit the stonewalls and he toppled to the floor, where he remained unmoving. The woman moved into the room face concealed by her thick hood. Pushing back his chair Sam withdrew the knife at his belt, a thick piece of metal with a serrated edge, the teeth for hooking and ripping.

 

There was a small huff of laughter as the assassin spotted the weapon, “And what do you suppose you’re going to do with that?” She purred as she herself revealed the two short axes, one in each hand. Lazily she twirled them, “One for you,” and “One for the prince, a kindness for him really.”

 

Suddenly Sam leapt atop of the bed and launched himself down at the assassin, knife coming down in one hard plunge. With a startled gasp the assassin danced to the side, where the blade caught her on her hip, earning a pained hiss from the woman.

 

Planting his feet Sam stood between the assassin and the bed, rolling his neck to elicit several sharp pops and cracks.

 

Flipping back her hood Sam faced the assassin, taken aback slightly by her beauty. Her face was framed with dark curling hair, her eye were almond shaped and of the deepest brown, perfectly complimenting her olive skin.

 

Her features twisted into a snarl as she launched herself forward, axes a wild flurry. Sam countered one axe with his knife in a clang of metal, sending it flying from her grip, and with his other hand he deftly caught the assassin’s wrist, which he immediately began to squeeze. Sam could feel the delicate bones of the woman’s wrist beginning to bend under the pressure, his arm flexed with the effort as the axe dropped from her hand, “Stop!” She cried, face paling with the growing pain.

 

Clenching his jaw Sam continued, and with a final terrible snap he heard and _felt_ the bones splinter beneath his hand. With a wail she dropped away from him, cradling her broken wrist against her chest. She backed up against the wall and ran from the room. Sam panted, feeling himself shake from the adrenaline. They were becoming bold, desperate.

 

A groan drew Sam’s attention back to the bed. “Prince?”

Castiel’s eyes were finally open though they lacked focus, staring without seeing at Sam. Shaking his head Castiel attempted to clear the cobwebs, “Sam...?”

 

Inias too pushed himself up from the floor, hand going to the back of his head where he felt blood matting his hair. For the moment Sam ignored the servant, “Dean’s going to be executed soon.”

 

Castiel jerked up, hand flying to his wound as he did, where fresh blood eked against the ivory bandages wrapped around his bare chest, “What?”

 

“T-they think he tried to kill you.” Sam rushed out, hope sparking in him.

 

Castiel’s lips thinned into a line, “It was Michael, Sam, not your brother. Though I’m sure you guessed as much.”

 

The relief was heady, like a potent cup of alcohol, “Oh thank God.”

 

“Sam, go stop the execution, I’ll have Inias take me there.” Castiel ordered, feeling the flesh of his wound ripping and pulling, forcing out more blood. But his heart raced, tears threatened to tumble unchecked, if Dean was murdered…Shaking his head Castiel concentrated on moving as fast as he could.

 

Sam gave Castiel a curt nod and was soon out the door, the sounds of his footsteps pounding against the cobbled floors as he ran as fast as his legs could manage.

 

Castiel swung his legs over the bed, biting back a hiss of agony, “Dean…”

 

 

+++

 

 

He rested his neck against the wooden block, the hard curve pressing painfully against his windpipe. His back was bent, his knees aching on the wet planks of the stand. Around his wrists a fibrous rope bound his hands behind his back, where every tiny movement made the coarse fabric bite into his skin.

 

It was the second time, in two days, where people were calling his name. As Dean opened his eyes black wings cut acrossthe gathered crowd, the first crow here to rend the flesh off his dead body. The old boards next to him creaked as heavy black boots came to stand at his side. Swiveling slightly Dean sighed with relief; the man was a brute, muscled arms thicker than a mature hard wood tree. “How long have you been doing this?” Dean asked, his voice barely audible over the crowd screaming for the traitor’s blood. From the corner of his eye Dean watched as the executioner shrugged, heavy bearded axe held casually in his right hand, “About 15 years now, give or take.”

 

Dean’s spine slumped into an easy line, more weight resting on his throat, “At least you’ll give me a quick death.”

 

All Dean heard from the man was a small chortle and then, “I’ve not been told otherwise from those I beheaded.”

 

Dean felt a smile on his lips, one he didn’t feel as he heard an extra set of footsteps take to the wooden platform.

 

“This man here, Sir Dean of Winchester, has been found guilty of the most heinous act; treason. For that his head is to be struck from his body.”

 

Clenching his jaw Dean closed his eyes, letting Michael’s words wash over him, his oily self-righteous tone a punishment in itself. Sam, Castiel, god he was leaving so many people behind. He wanted to taste Castiel again, feel him under him and then wake to his sleepy smile and then kiss it, taste pure bliss upon the skin. He wanted to see Sam marry Jess, watch him take her small hand in his, body so much larger, so gentle with her.

 

Dean felt himself tremble, life would go on without him, in war he learnt that no matter what one thought a person was just a body, the world moved on without them soon enough.

 

There was a whoosh of air, Dean pictured the axe being raised, held in the executioner’s hands as it hovered above the line of his neck. Shivers began to course through him, each breath he exhaled was a whimper, his senses were hyper aware as though desperately trying to feel everything for the final time; the hard wood, splinters digging and poking into the soft skin of his throat, the smell of hay and must of horse manure thick in his nostrils, the itchy rope binding at his wrists, the cacophony of the crowd _screeching_ for his head.

 

“Stop!”

 

Dean’s eyes flickered open. From his awkward angle he could only just see the first row of the crowd, muddied faces of peasants and an intermittent line of armoured guards holding them back. Yet the peasants parted to let one man through.

 

“Sam?” Dean murmured whilst a panic began to germinate under his skin, if he interfered, he too might be imprisoned, or worse executed.

 

Willing his voice not to quiver Dean shouts out so his brother would hear his words over the crowd, “Sammy, please, don’t try anything.” Biting down on his lip Dean felt the burn of moisture at his eyes but denied himself the tears, “Marry Jess, look after the county, it’s gonna be okay.”

 

Sam wiped a hand over his eyes, “Just wait, still your hand Michael!” Despite Dean’s protestations Sam continued, “I’m here on orders of the prince!”

 

The crowd quells into quietude. Michael spreads out his hands and lets out a pregnant, exasperated sigh, “Why should I believe your words? You’re here to save your brother, who is guilty of treason. No, I shan’t wait a moment more.”

 

Turning to the executioner Michael nods his head slightly. Dean hears Sam scream, howl, he can’t watch, he closes his eyes.

 

“He is correct Michael.”

 

The gravelly, low voice, cuts like a dagger.

 

This time Dean sits up, still on his knees before the headsman’s bloodstained block. Castiel is pale, sweat running freely down his neck to soak the collar of his bed clothes, his hair is a disheveled mess and his arm is wrapped around the back of Inias’ neck for support. He looks exactly what a soon to be king shouldn’t; weak.

 

“My prince, you should be resting,” Comes Michael, hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes widening with fright. Dean grins up at him, feeling relief pouring through his blood.

 

Inias helps Castiel half walk, half stumble, over to the raised platform, where the crowd immediately parts, awed to be so close to their monarch. “I cannot rest when a treasonous usurper threatens my kingdom and _my_ men.”

 

Raising a hand Castiel singles Michael out, “Guards, arrest him.” There’s a sharp metallic scrape as Michael unsheathes his sword in one defiant movement. Baring his teeth Michael turns his sword onto an approaching guard who also has his broad sword out. The guard swings the sword in an arc, which Michael ducks under and with an easy swipe guts the man with a scream.

 

Dean gets to his feet, “Unbind me,” He urges the executioner, who without hesitation yanks the knot out of the rope. Gesturing to the man’s axe Dean quirks a brow, “May I?” The executioner shrugs and hands Dean the weapon, who swings it experimentally as he advances on Michael, silver sword dripping with the fallen guard’s blood.

 

“We could have been allies Dean!”  Michael screams, phlegm flecking his lips, whites of his eyes iridescent in the morning sun. “Not likely.” With that Dean counters Michael’s desperate strike and with a deft twist to his hand uses the hook of the axe’s head to wrench the sword from Michael’s grasp.

 

“Don’t kill me,” He squeaks out as Dean hefts the axe, readjusting his grip, “No promises.” With the flat of the axe he brings it crashing into Michael’s temple, making the noble tumble to the floor, unconscious.

 

 

+++

 

 

“You know I hate crowds.”

 

Castiel rolls his eyes as he adjusts the collar of Dean’s cloak, fingers running over the ermine trim, “Neither do I but we must suffer this hardship.”

 

They’re alone in a tiny room looking over the castle grounds. With a fond sigh Dean watches the sun paint its glistening patters over the waters. “You’re about to become King and I’m going to be the commander of the Royal Guard…This feels like a dream.”

 

Castiel shakes his head, hands coming to rest against Dean’s clean-shaven cheeks, “It can’t be, for I’ve never had a dream so sweet.” Dean can’t help but agree when he tastes Castiel’s lips against his own but he wouldn’t ever say it aloud. Castiel smiles against him, he knows.

 


End file.
